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.
- Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
- Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
- Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
- Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
- 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).
| Assessment Objective | Section A | Section B |
|---|---|---|
| AO1 | ✓ | |
| AO2 | ✓ | |
| AO3 | N/A | |
| AO4 | ✓ | |
| AO5 | ✓ | |
| AO6 | ✓ |
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 seemed lower than the sea?: the remote beach – 1 mark
- 1.2 What required a searching glance to discern?: the little black figure – 1 mark
- 1.3 What did the captain see?: a floating stick – 1 mark
- 1.4 What did the captain see in the water?: A floating stick – 1 mark
Question 2 - Mark Scheme
Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 168 of the source:
1 The remote beach seemed lower than the sea, and it required a searching glance to discern the little black figure. The captain saw a floating stick and they rowed to it. A bath-towel was by some weird chance in
6 the boat, and, tying this on the stick, the captain waved it. The oarsman did not dare turn his head, so he was obliged to ask questions.
11 "What's he doing now?" "He's standing still again. He's looking, I think.... There he goes again. Towards the house.... Now he's stopped again."
16 "Is he waving at us?" "No, not now! he was, though."
21 "Look! There comes another man!" "He's running." "Look at him go, would you."
26 "Why, he's on a bicycle. Now he's met the other man. They're both waving at us. Look!"
31 "There comes something up the beach." "What the devil is that thing?" "Why, it looks like a boat."
36 "Why, certainly it's a boat." "No, it's on wheels."
41 "Yes, so it is. Well, that must be the life-boat. They drag them along shore on a wagon." "That's the life-boat, sure."
46 "No, by ----, it's--it's an omnibus." "I tell you it's a life-boat."
51 "It is not! It's an omnibus. I can see it plain. See? One of these big hotel omnibuses." "By thunder, you're right. It's an omnibus, sure as fate. What do you
56 suppose they are doing with an omnibus? Maybe they are going around collecting the life-crew, hey?"
61 "That's it, likely. Look! There's a fellow waving a little black flag. He's standing on the steps of the omnibus. There come those other two fellows. Now they're all talking together. Look at the fellow with the
66 flag. Maybe he ain't waving it." "That ain't a flag, is it? That's his coat. Why certainly, that's his coat."
71 "So it is. It's his coat. He's taken it off and is waving it around his head. But would you look at him swing it."
76 "Oh, say, there isn't any life-saving station there. That's just a winter resort hotel omnibus that has brought over some of the boarders to see us drown."
81 "What's that idiot with the coat mean? What's he signaling, anyhow?" "It looks as if he were trying to tell us to go north. There must be a life-
86 saving station up there." "No! He thinks we're fishing. Just giving us a merry hand. See? Ah, there, Willie."
91 "Well, I wish I could make something out of those signals. What do you suppose he means?"
96 "He don't mean anything. He's just playing." "Well, if he'd just signal us to try the surf again, or to go to sea and wait, or go north, or go south, or go to hell--there would be some
101 reason in it. But look at him. He just stands there and keeps his coat revolving like a wheel. The ass!"
106 "There come more people." "Now there's quite a mob. Look! Isn't that a boat?" "Where? Oh, I see where you mean. No, that's no boat."
111 "That fellow is still waving his coat." "He must think we like to see him do that. Why don't he quit it? It don't mean
116 anything." "I don't know. I think he is trying to make us go north. It must be that there's a life-saving station there somewhere."
121 "Say, he ain't tired yet. Look at 'im wave." "Wonder how long he can keep that up. He's been revolving his coat ever since
126 he caught sight of us. He's an idiot. Why aren't they getting men to bring a boat out? A fishing boat--one of those big yawls--could come out here all right. Why don't he do something?"
131 "Oh, it's all right, now." "They'll have a boat out here for us in less than no time, now that they've
136 seen us." A faint yellow tone came into the sky over the low land. The shadows on the sea slowly deepened. The wind bore coldness with it, and the men
141 began to shiver. "Holy smoke!" said one, allowing his voice to express his impious mood, "if we
146 keep on monkeying out here! If we've got to flounder out here all night!" "Oh, we'll never have to stay here all night! Don't you worry. They've seen us
151 now, and it won't be long before they'll come chasing out after us." The shore grew dusky. The man waving a coat blended gradually into this gloom,
156 and it swallowed in the same manner the omnibus and the group of people. The spray, when it dashed uproariously over the side, made the voyagers shrink and swear like men who were being branded.
161 "I'd like to catch the chump who waved the coat. I feel like soaking him one, just for luck."
166 "Why? What did he do?" "Oh, nothing, but then he seemed so damned cheerful."
How does the writer use language here to show the men’s efforts to signal and to watch the figure on the shore? 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: The writer presents improvised signalling and anxious watching through concrete detail and urgent, fragmented dialogue: a makeshift flag—"bath-towel" on a "floating stick"—is waved while the oarsman, "obliged to ask questions", relies on imperatives and interrogatives ("Look!", "What's he doing now?", "Is he waving at us?"), whose repetition, ellipses ("I think....") and colloquial insult ("The ass!") expose confusion as the coat’s motion "revolving like a wheel" proves futile. Simultaneously, comic misperception between "life-boat" and "omnibus", and fading visibility—"the shore grew dusky", the man "blended gradually into this gloom"—show their watch faltering and signals fading, pulling the reader into their tense, narrowing field of vision.
The writer uses precise visual imagery and improvisation to foreground the men’s effort. The “remote beach” that “seemed lower than the sea” skews perspective, so it “required a searching glance to discern the little black figure”: the intensified noun phrase and colour imagery emphasise how hard they strain to see. For signalling, they contrive a flag “by some weird chance” with a towel; “tying this on the stick, the captain waved it” uses dynamic verbs to suggest urgent, makeshift action. Meanwhile, the oarsman “did not dare turn his head” and is “obliged to ask questions,” the modal phrasing conveying danger compelling a clumsy relay of watching.
Moreover, rapid staccato dialogue and interrogatives replicate the act of scanning: “What’s he doing now?”; “Is he waving at us?” Imperatives and deictics—“Look!”, “There”, “that”, “this”—sound like pointing across distance, signalling their uncertainty. Epistemic modality (“maybe,” “likely,” “must be”) and the comic juxtaposition “life-boat”/“omnibus” expose repeated misreadings. The simile “keeps his coat revolving like a wheel” renders the shore-man’s signal mechanical and meaningless, heightening the men’s frustration—“The ass!” Polysyndeton in “or to go to sea… or go north, or go south, or go to hell” piles up options, dramatizing their desperate desire for a clear instruction.
Additionally, personification charts visibility ebbing away and eroding their efforts: “The shore grew dusky,” the figure “blended… into this gloom,” and “it swallowed” both people and omnibus—an engulfing darkness that defeats watching and signalling. Even the “wind bore coldness,” while the violent simile “swear like men who were being branded” conveys bodily strain. Colloquial exclamatives—“Holy smoke!”, “chump”, “damned cheerful”—reveal frayed tempers as hope fades. Collectively, these choices render the men’s signalling ingenious yet futile, and their watching anxious, tentative, and ultimately overwhelmed.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks
Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology.
Indicative Standard: The writer uses colloquial, repetitive dialogue to show their constant, uncertain watching: questions like "What's he doing now?" and "What the devil is that thing?", the imperative exclamation "Look!", and ellipses in "He's looking, I think...." create a stop-start rhythm as they try to make sense of the distant "little black figure."
Their efforts to signal and growing frustration are conveyed by the improvised "bath-towel" flag and the simile "keeps his coat revolving like a wheel" (suggesting futile, mechanical signalling), while repetition of "waving", insults like "The ass!", and personification that the gloom "swallowed" the figure show visibility fading and hope slipping.
The writer uses active verbs and improvisation to present the men’s signalling and watching. The beach “required a searching glance to discern the little black figure”, and the captain “saw a floating stick” and, with a “bath-towel” found “by some weird chance”, is “tying this on the stick” before he “waved it”. This makes their flag seem makeshift and urgent.
Furthermore, constant dialogue with interrogatives and imperatives shows their watching. “What’s he doing now?” and repeated “Look!” create immediacy, while “The oarsman did not dare turn his head, so he was obliged to ask questions” shows the danger shaping how they observe. The ellipses in “He’s looking, I think…. There he goes again” suggest hesitant, staccato sightings.
Moreover, the simile “keeps his coat revolving like a wheel” presents the shore signal as mechanical and relentless. The list “go north… go south… go to hell” is hyperbole that conveys their confusion and irritation at signals they cannot decode, reinforced by exclamatives and colloquial insults: “The ass!”
Additionally, imagery and personification make watching harder as light fades: the waver “blended gradually into this gloom”, which “swallowed” the omnibus and crowd. The harsh simile “like men who were being branded” shows the physical cost of waiting, emphasising how their efforts to signal and to watch become increasingly painful and futile.
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 uses descriptive words like "searching glance" and "little black figure" to show it’s hard to see the man, and action like the captain "waved it" shows their effort to signal. Repeated exclamations and questions such as "Look!" and "What’s he doing now?", plus the simile "keeps his coat revolving like a wheel", suggest anxious, confused watching of the figure on shore.
The writer uses descriptive words and verbs to show the men signalling. The phrase “searching glance” shows how hard they work to watch the “little black figure”. By “tying this on the stick” and “waved it”, they improvise a flag, suggesting urgency and hope.
Furthermore, dialogue and questions show their effort to watch. Lines like “What’s he doing now?” and “Is he waving at us?” are repeated, and the exclamation “Look!” makes the scene feel tense. The list “go north… go south… go to hell” shows their confusion about the signal.
Moreover, the simile “keeps his coat revolving like a wheel” shows strong signalling from shore, but calling him “the ass” shows frustration. Additionally, the personification that the figure “blended… into this gloom” and the darkness “swallowed” the omnibus shows fading light, so watching becomes harder.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses words like 'remote beach', 'searching glance' and 'little black figure', plus dialogue with questions and exclamations such as "What's he doing now?" and "Look!", to show the men are watching closely but feel unsure. Their signaling is shown by repeated mentions of 'waving', the 'coat', and the captain 'tying this on the stick' and 'waved it', which shows they are trying to get help but are confused.
The writer uses descriptive words to show effort. The phrases "searching glance" and "little black figure" show they look hard at the shore. The captain "waved" a towel on a stick to signal. Furthermore, the dialogue has many questions like "What's he doing now?", which shows they are watching closely but unsure. Moreover, repetition of "waving" and the simile "like a wheel" make the signals seem confusing. Additionally, short exclamations such as "Look!" show urgency. This makes the reader see their effort and worry.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:
- Distant, lowered shore image makes the figure hard to spot, emphasising effortful watching (searching glance).
- Improvised signal shows urgency and resourcefulness as they try to be seen (tying this on the stick).
- Physical constraint heightens tension: he can’t look himself and must rely on reports (did not dare turn).
- Live, fragmented dialogue tracks movements in real time, creating vigilant surveillance (What's he doing now?).
- Repetition and stop-start rhythm suggest uncertain sightings and wavering interpretation (There he goes again).
- Interrogatives/exclamatives convey agitation and confusion while decoding shapes and signals (What the devil).
- Misidentification sequence (life-boat/omnibus) shows distance-blurred vision and unstable conclusions (It's an omnibus).
- Motif of “waving” plus mechanical metaphor implies futile, ambiguous signaling that frustrates the men (revolving like a wheel).
- Listing potential instructions reveals their craving for clear guidance from shore signals (go north).
- Darkening and personified gloom progressively erase visual contact, undercutting their watch and hopes (blended gradually into this gloom).
Question 3 - Mark Scheme
You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the middle of a story.
How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of uncertainty?
You could write about:
- how uncertainty intensifies throughout the source
- how the writer uses structure to create an effect
- the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]
Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)
Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).
Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace a structural progression from initial visual ambiguity—“searching glance” at a “little black figure”—and a constrained viewpoint (“did not dare turn his head”) that drives staccato Q&A (“What’s he doing now?”, “Is he waving at us?”, “I think....”) and serial misreadings (“That’s the life-boat, sure”/“It’s an omnibus”), with the repeated deictic “Look!” constantly shifting focus and destabilising certainty. It would also analyse the gear-change to slower, darkening narration (“A faint yellow tone … “The shore grew dusky”; figures “blended gradually into this gloom”) and the futile refrain of the “coat revolving like a wheel,” which pivots tentative hope (“it won’t be long”) into exasperation (“The ass!”), thereby deepening the reader’s sense of uncertainty.
One way in which the writer has structured the text to create uncertainty is through restricted focalisation and staccato interrogatives. The opening distances the scene—“a searching glance to discern the little black figure”—so the viewpoint is visually compromised. Because “the oarsman did not dare turn his head,” the narrative devolves into clipped Q&A: “What’s he doing now?” “Is he waving at us?” Repeated imperatives (“Look!”) and parataxis quicken pace while withholding authoritative guidance, pushing reader and characters into conjecture.
In addition, the writer engineers a pattern of misrecognition and self-correction to intensify uncertainty. Focus skitters from object to object onshore, and each identification is contradicted in rapid succession: “That’s the life-boat” / “No… it’s an omnibus.” This oscillation, freighted with deictic vagueness (“There comes something up the beach”) and incremental repetition (“He’s waving… No, not now!”), dramatizes the men’s unreliable sightlines. Even as the crowd accrues—“there’s quite a mob”—the only stable action is the meaningless signal: he “keeps his coat revolving.” This structural withholding of clear cues prolongs indecision.
A further structural feature is temporal modulation into dusk, which shifts tone from fragile hope to bleak irresolution. After a false reassurance—“Oh, it’s all right, now”—time advances: “A faint yellow tone… The shore grew dusky.” As figures “blended gradually into this gloom,” potential rescuers are erased from the frame. The passage ends on anticlimax and bitterness, not rescue, leaving the situation withheld. By pacing from distant, uncertain sightlines to outright obscurity, the writer heightens and then freezes uncertainty.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would clearly explain that uncertainty is built by the sequence of short, conflicting exchanges—repeated questions like "What's he doing now?" and reversals such as "That's the life-boat"/ "It's an omnibus"—which keep shifting the men’s expectations. It would also note the structural shift in setting and mood from "A faint yellow tone" to "The shore grew dusky" as the figure "blended gradually into this gloom," intensifying the characters’ frustration and the reader’s unease.
One way the writer structures uncertainty is through a restricted viewpoint and shifting focus. From the outset the beach “required a searching glance” to see the “little black figure,” and, because the oarsman “did not dare turn his head,” he is “obliged to ask questions.” The narrative flits from a “floating stick” to a makeshift flag, so we can only guess what we’re seeing.
In addition, rapid, question-filled dialogue and sharp contrasts in identification intensify uncertainty. Short exchanges accelerate pace, “What the devil is that thing?”, while the men disagree: “That’s the life-boat” versus “it’s an omnibus”; a “flag” becomes “his coat.” This repeated misrecognition resets our understanding, keeping us in suspense, and even the “signals” are contested—“He don’t mean anything” against “he is trying to make us go north.”
A further structural feature is the temporal progression into darkness, creating an anticlimactic shift in tone. After the hopeful, “Oh, it’s all right, now,” the pace slows into description—“A faint yellow tone… The shore grew dusky”—as figures are “swallowed” by gloom. This change in focus leaves rescue unresolved, ending in frustrated irony: “I’d like to catch the chump… so damned cheerful.”
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would identify that the writer uses quick, back‑and‑forth dialogue with repeated questions and conflicting observations like "What the devil is that thing?", "Is he waving at us?", and "It's an omnibus", so the men conclude the signals "It don't mean anything", which builds uncertainty. It would also notice a shift from dialogue to darker description—"A faint yellow tone", "The shore grew dusky", "The shadows on the sea slowly deepened"—changing the mood from brief hope ("It's all right, now") to worry ("If we've got to flounder out here all night!").
One way in which the writer structures uncertainty is through rapid dialogue and questions. Short lines like “What’s he doing now?” and “Is he waving at us?” keep changing the focus. The repeated questions and short sentences make the reader unsure what is happening.
In addition, the focus shifts between boat and shore. In the middle they mis-see things: “life-boat” becomes “omnibus”, and a “flag” turns into “his coat”. This back-and-forth correction gives false hope, so the uncertainty grows.
A further structural feature is the change in time and mood at the end. The sky darkens—“A faint yellow tone...” then “The shore grew dusky”—and the men shiver. The line about “all night” leaves the ending unresolved, increasing tension and doubt.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses lots of questions and changing ideas, like "What's he doing now?" and "It's an omnibus/That's the life-boat", to keep the reader unsure. Then it turns darker with "The shore grew dusky", which makes the outcome feel even more uncertain.
One way the writer structures uncertainty is through quick dialogue and questions. Short lines like 'What's he doing now?' and 'Is he waving at us?' stop and start, so we are unsure what is happening.
In addition, the focus keeps shifting on the shore. They think it's a boat, then an omnibus, then a coat 'flag'. This back-and-forth creates confusion, so the reader doesn't know what to believe.
A further feature is a change in mood at the end. 'The shore grew dusky' and they shiver, so uncertainty grows.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:
- Distant opening focus makes the scene hard to read, immediately planting doubt about what’s seen (little black figure)
- Restricted viewpoint via enforced Q&A filters information second-hand, keeping outcomes unclear (obliged to ask questions)
- Staccato interrogatives and imperatives force constant re-evaluation, sustaining doubt (What's he doing now?)
- A pattern of misidentification and correction creates vacillation about what is seen (It's an omnibus)
- Signal-source confusion (flag vs coat) presents actions that resist decoding, so meaning stays unclear (That's his coat.)
- Contradictory readings of the same gesture keep choices open and stall decision-making (go north)
- Growing crowd raises expectations yet no action follows, so uncertainty intensifies through delay (quite a mob)
- A rise-and-fall of hope is staged then undercut, sharpening instability (Oh, it's all right, now)
- The encroaching dusk erases visual cues, compounding unknowns and isolating the men (blended gradually into this gloom)
- Closing shift from brittle optimism to anxiety and resentment leaves the outcome open (flounder out here all night)
Question 4 - Mark Scheme
For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 76 to the end.
In this part of the source, it is strange that the men get angry at the person waving his coat on the shore. The writer suggests that their desperate situation makes them see a cheerful action as annoying and cruel.
To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?
In your response, you could:
- consider your impressions of the men's increasingly angry behaviour
- comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest their growing desperation
- 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 the writer’s viewpoint that desperation distorts perception by showing how close focalisation and repetition turn a benign signal—"keeps his coat revolving like a wheel"—into targets for escalating pejoratives ("The ass!", "He's an idiot.") and resentful misreadings ("Why don't he do something?", "so damned cheerful"). It would also analyse how the darkening setting and physical strain—"impious mood", the men "began to shiver", "shrink and swear... like men who were being branded", onlookers lost to "gloom" that "swallowed" them—mirror rising desperation, partly contextualising their irritation while ultimately critiquing their projection of cruelty onto a cheerful onlooker.
I largely agree with the statement. Although it may seem strange that the men resent a seemingly cheerful gesture, the writer carefully engineers their anger as a product of mounting desperation, so that the coat-waver’s “merry hand” is reinterpreted as taunting and cruel.
From the outset, the dialogue foregrounds confusion and irritation through rapid-fire questions and colloquial exclamations: “What’s he signaling, anyhow?” and “What does he mean?” The repeated uncertainty creates a semantic field of miscommunication (“signal,” “north,” “life-saving station”), intensifying the men’s anxiety. Sarcasm creeps in—“Ah, there, Willie”—and labels like “idiot” and “ass” dehumanise the figure onshore. The simile “keeps his coat revolving like a wheel” mechanises the man’s action, suggesting mindless fuss rather than purposeful rescue; this choice of imagery makes the gesture feel offensively empty to men fighting for survival. The cynical idea that the omnibus has brought “boarders to see us drown” introduces bitter irony: the shore becomes a theatre, their crisis reduced to spectacle. In that context, their anger feels less “strange” than psychologically credible.
Structurally, Crane stages a cycle of hope and deflation that sharpens their hostility. The conditional wish—“if he’d just signal us… there would be some reason in it”—reveals a longing for clear, authoritative instruction; lacking that, the wave reads as frivolous “play.” A burst of optimism—“Oh, it’s all right, now”—is swiftly undercut by setting: “a faint yellow tone” fades, “shadows… deepened,” and the “gloom… swallowed” the watchers. This personification of the shore and the encroaching dusk isolates the men, while the visceral simile “swear… like men who were being branded” foregrounds physical torment. As the environment grows harsher, the coat-waver’s persistence—“he ain’t tired yet… look at ’im wave”—is reframed as perverse endurance, stoking their sense of being mocked.
Crucially, Crane’s use of cumulative repetition (“That fellow is still waving his coat”) and unanswered rhetorical questions (“Why aren’t they getting men to bring a boat out?”) builds frustration into resentment. The narrator’s aside—one man’s “impious mood”—marks a tonal shift from anxious hope to near-blasphemous fury. By the end, the motive for violence—“I’d like to… soak him one”—hinges on tone: “he seemed so damned cheerful.” The adverb “cheerful,” innocuous in ordinary circumstances, is made grotesque by juxtaposition with “flounder out here all night,” demonstrating how extremity distorts moral readings.
Overall, I agree to a large extent: the anger may appear odd at first glance, but the writer’s dialogue, cyclical structure, and bleak imagery render it tragically understandable. Their desperation refracts a benign signal into a symbol of indifference—and, to them, cruelty.
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 with the writer’s viewpoint, clearly explaining how desperation turns cheer into cruelty by noting the repetition and dialogue: the onlooker 'keeps his coat revolving like a wheel', prompting insults like 'The ass!', demands such as 'Why don't he do something?', and recasting a 'merry hand' as 'damned cheerful'. It would also link the hostile setting—the men 'began to shiver', 'The shore grew dusky', and the spray hits 'like men who were being branded'—to their worsening mood, supporting the writer’s view.
I mostly agree with the statement. It does seem strange, at first, that the men turn on a person apparently trying to help, but the writer shows how their growing desperation makes any “cheerful” gesture feel insensitive and even cruel.
The quick-fire dialogue immediately establishes uncertainty and irritation. A chain of interrogatives—“What’s that idiot with the coat mean?” and “What do you suppose he means?”—shows confusion turning into hostility. The derogatory nouns “idiot,” “ass,” and later “chump” reveal an escalation in tone. Repetition of the coat motif (“He just stands there and keeps his coat revolving like a wheel”) makes the action feel mechanical and pointless, which mirrors the men’s mounting frustration. The suggestion that the onlookers are “boarders to see us drown” creates a cynical impression of the shore as voyeuristic, so the waving reads as mocking rather than helpful.
Structurally, hope flickers—“Oh, it’s all right, now… less than no time”—before the setting darkens. The tonal shift is signalled through a lexical field of cold and gloom: “A faint yellow tone… The shadows… deepened,” “The wind bore coldness,” and “The shore grew dusky.” Personification—“the man waving a coat blended… into this gloom, and it swallowed… the omnibus and the group of people”—suggests help is literally disappearing. Sensory imagery intensifies their suffering: the spray makes them “shrink and swear like men who were being branded,” while one voice adopts an “impious mood” (“Holy smoke!”). These methods convincingly explain why a “merry hand” feels provocative: in pain and fear, they want action—“Why don’t he do something?”—not empty signals.
However, the text also hints the waving might be guidance—“go north… a life-saving station”—so the anger is, in one sense, unreasonable. Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer uses dialogue, repetition, and the darkening setting to show how desperation warps perception, making a cheerful wave seem annoying and cruel.
Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree: the men’s desperation makes them see the coat-waver’s cheer as cruel, calling him an “idiot”, an “ass”, and “so damned cheerful”, while that he “keeps his coat revolving like a wheel” only irritates them. The writer shows their growing desperation with repetition of the coat-waving and bleak detail like “The wind bore coldness”, the men “began to shiver”, and “The shore grew dusky”.
I mostly agree with the statement. It does seem strange that the men turn their anger on the man “waving his coat,” but the writer shows how fear and exhaustion twist their view so that a “cheerful” signal feels annoying and cruel.
At first, the dialogue is full of confused questions: “What’s that idiot with the coat mean?” and “What do you suppose he means?” The repeated questions and the fragmented talk create a tense, desperate mood. They can’t read the signs, so they lash out, calling him an “idiot” and “The ass!” The simile “keeps his coat revolving like a wheel” makes the action seem mechanical and pointless, which increases their irritation. They can’t agree if he means “go north” or is “just playing,” and later one even says he feels like “soaking him one.”
As more onlookers arrive, “quite a mob,” the men’s hope briefly rises: “They’ll have a boat out here for us in less than no time.” But the light fades from “a faint yellow tone” to “dusky,” and the figure “blended… into this gloom.” The cold — “the men began to shiver” — and the harsh simile “swear like men who were being branded” show pain and desperation, so it is believable they see the coat-waver’s “merry hand” as cruel.
Overall, I agree. While their anger is odd, the writer’s use of questioning dialogue, repetition, and the darkening setting shows how their desperation makes a cheerful wave feel mocking, so they blame him.
Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree in simple terms, noticing the men insult the onlooker as "idiot with the coat", say "The ass!", and complain he's "waving his coat" and "so damned cheerful", so his cheerfulness seems annoying. It might briefly note desperation with surface details like they "began to shiver" in the "gloom".
I mostly agree. It is strange they get angry, but the writer shows they are cold and scared, so the waving feels cruel.
At the start, the dialogue shows frustration. They ask, "What's that idiot with the coat mean?" and call him "The ass!" Repeated questions like "What do you suppose he means?" sound desperate. The simile "keeps his coat revolving like a wheel" makes the waving seem endless and annoying. The list "go north... go south... go to hell" also shows panic.
The setting adds to this. The shore grows darker, "the wind bore coldness," and they start "to shiver." The spray hits them "like men who were being branded," which is painful imagery. Because they suffer, the man's "damned cheerful" waving looks uncaring. One even says, "I'd like to catch the chump... soaking him one."
Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer uses dialogue, repetition and a simile to show growing desperation, so a friendly signal seems annoying and cruel to them.
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:
- Repetitive, breathless exclamations create frantic, heightened sensitivity, priming irritation at any shore-side movement (Look!)
- Contradictory identifications (lifeboat/omnibus) show confused, desperate judgment, so cheerful gestures are easily misread as indifference (It's an omnibus.)
- They recast the onlookers as callous spectators, reading interest as cruelty, which strongly supports the claim (see us drown)
- Ambiguous signalling breeds frustration; their demand for clear directions turns the coat-waving into a provocation rather than help (It don't mean anything.)
- Iterative description of the coat’s circular motion makes the gesture seem mechanical and taunting, sharpening their annoyance (keeps his coat revolving)
- Name-calling escalates their anger, shifting blame onto the waver and construing his behaviour as hostile (He's an idiot.)
- Yet moments of charitable interpretation suggest possible help, tempering the judgement that the act is cruel (go north)
- Darkening light and cold intensify discomfort, so worsening physical conditions magnify their irritability toward the waver (The shore grew dusky.)
- The closing urge to hit him simply for seeming upbeat crystallises how desperation recodes cheerfulness as cruelty (damned cheerful)
Question 5 - Mark Scheme
A local news blog is asking for creative pieces about dramatic weather.
Choose one of the options below for your entry.
- Option A: Describe a sudden storm from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:
- Option B: Write the opening of a story about taking shelter from an unexpected event.
(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 street held its breath; even the gulls, gossiping tyrants any other afternoon, fell mute beneath a sky the colour of gunmetal. A barometric hush pressed on the terraces; washing lines sagged and plane tree leaves stilled as if pinched by an unseen hand. Far to the west, graphite smudges gathered and thickened, slate upon slate until the horizon bruised. Chimneys—those brick-throated sentries—looked suddenly small.
By degrees, the omens arrived: a sycamore leaf flipped to show its paler belly; a dust devil unwound in the gutter and died; the air acquired that scintillating chill that comes before weather. Then—sound. Not the polite rattle of traffic, but a subterranean throb, as if a drum beat in the chest of the sky. Windows closed with brisk little claps; a child, rope halted mid-arc, stared upward.
A fat drop struck—warm as a coin; another stippled the pavement with sudden ink. The first minute was a rehearsal: scattered notes, tentative, irregular. Then the conductor raised an invisible baton; the score began in earnest. Rain arrived in staccato ranks, marshalling into sheets that stitched the street from eave to kerb. The cloud-base fell, low and truculent, turning noon to underwater dusk.
The wind found its courage; it unzipped the alley and came howling through, fingering doorbells, rattling letterboxes. Lightning wrote electric calligraphy across the cloud-belly; for a heartbeat the world was bleached bone-white: bins, bikes, faces at windows—all etched and gone. Thunder followed almost before the light abandoned us, not a decorous rumble but a detonation that punched the ribs. Gutters choked; rain ricocheted; a weak fence surrendered with a sorry sigh. What a sound!
In the midst of that cacophony, a pause—brief, bewildering. The rain thinned to threads; the wind seemed to rethink its fury. Petrichor rose, green and granular, from warmed pavements; even the tick-tick of a bicycle cooling under a porch became audible. Who imagined that quiet could be so loud?
The reprieve shattered as another black phalanx shouldered through: rain returned sideways, needled and implacable. Drains gargled; the road became a swift, pewter river fretted with leaf-confetti and drowned blossom. As abruptly as it had started, it relented. The curtain of rain shredded to drizzle, blue unseaming the cloud. Drops hung from telephone wires like glass beads; the houses gleamed as if newly varnished. In the washed, luminous silence, the street exhaled.
Option B:
We were halfway across the square when the sky changed its mind: one moment a docile wash of late afternoon blue; the next, a livid bruise rolling over the rooftops and swallowing the sun whole. A wind stitched through the market tents, tugging at bunting, lifting napkins like pale moths. Someone laughed—nervous, brittle—because we are good at laughing at weather here. Then the first stone of ice struck the flagstones with a sharp, glassy click.
Another. Then a scatter, like cutlery spilled across a kitchen floor.
Run.
We ran because the air had developed teeth; because the hail arrived not as the polite, scattershot British kind, but as hard, white marbles that ricocheted from kerbs and car bonnets. My breath snagged; my palms were slick; a metallic tang—ozone? fear?—sat at the back of my throat. The square emptied with astonishing speed. Stalls keeled over, apples escaping in brave, bright arcs. A child shrieked. Somewhere a siren started and then stopped, swallowed by the drumming.
The launderette’s door yielded under my shoulder. Warmth, wet-linen warmth, enveloped us; the bell on the frame protested, tinny and indignant, and then we were inside, blinking. The room hummed, a low, consoling note; machines turned and turned, round portholes of spinning shirts and anonymous lives. The floor was a mosaic of dropped receipts and damp footprints; a sign—Please don’t slam the doors—trembled against its string.
Others pressed in after us: the florist with green-stained fingers; a woman still holding a heel in one hand as if it were evidence; an old man carrying a terrier that smelled of rain; two teenagers whose laughter refused to quieten. I counted without meaning to—an old habit, calming and ridiculous—and landed on twelve. Twelve of us, stranded in a glass-fronted aquarium, watching weather happen as if it were a drama staged for us alone.
“Was this forecast?” someone asked, as though the right app might reverse the sky.
“No,” I said, because my mouth sometimes answers before my mind. “It wasn’t.” I had checked the forecast this morning—sun icon, cheerful—but had not planned for bruised clouds, or for being caught in the open with a letter in my pocket that I had promised myself I would deliver. (I had also not planned for how my courage would evaporate in the space between bakery and bench; I had not planned for how relieved I would feel to be forced to stop.)
Outside, the hail accelerated, a furious percussion; it peppered the pavement, bounced, shattered. Tiny shaves of ice piled in the gutters like salt. A pane in the door starred delicately—just a hairline, nothing more—and we collectively inhaled. The machines, undeterred, continued their aquatic soliloquy. One drum thumped, out of time.
Time itself loosened. Minutes became elastic; conversation snagged and snagged again, catching on the same barbs. We exchanged facts we didn’t need: where we were when it started; whose cousin once saw a storm like this in Spain; how, despite ourselves, we felt small. The terrier whined and was kissed between its ears. I touched the corner of the envelope in my pocket and imagined it blistering with damp, the ink smudging into confession.
I told myself it would pass—storms do; this is their trick and their mercy—and that when it did, I would step back into the square and carry on. For now, we listened to the sky throw stones at our glass box and pretended that the hum of the machines could drown it out.
- Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)
Option A:
The air held its breath as the sky gathered itself, thickening from pale to the colour of an old bruise. Behind the neat terrace, the chimneys stood like chess pieces abandoned mid-game; curtains lifted, wavered, and lay still. A cat froze mid-step, whiskers tasting the metallic hush. Even the birch leaves, normally incessant with gossip, stilled to a polished green. The houses watched—windows slick with a sudden, smudged light; doors shut a little harder; washing pegs clenched like teeth.
It came in a small sound first: the soft click of pressure easing in my ears, the sibilant sweep along the eaves. Then the first drop struck the patio—enormous, deliberate—leaving a perfect dark coin. Another. Another. Tap—tap—tap. The gust that followed had edges; it ribboned through the hedge and sent roses into a shiver. A white seam ripped the underside of the clouds, stitching light between roofs. The thunder lagged, then shouldered through: a low, petulant roll that made the glass quiver in its frame.
And then the restraint was gone. Rain arrived in ranks, all at once, marching slantwise across the street: a dense curtain that erased distance. The sound was a riot—staccato on the slates; a cavernous thrumming in the gutters; a palmed slap on the asphalt. Guttering gargled; downpipes choked and spat. A chalk hopscotch blurred, colours bleeding until the numbers drifted away. The temperature dropped; the air tasted of tin and lightning. Petrichor rose—earthy, sweet—plaiting with that sharp, cold scent of the storm’s breath. The wind found voice; it surged and eddied, snatching at the washing line (pegs rattled like teeth), bending the ash until its leaves flashed their pale undersides.
A flare—so close it stitched the aerials onto the cloud—silenced everything. The crack that followed was immediate, as if some enormous door had slammed in the sky. For a minute the street lived under that grey engine—time counted by relentless drumming. Then, almost slyly, the force slackened: the rain frayed to threads; gutters found their level; the wind, spent, combed weakly through the hedges. The cloud peeled back and a meek, lemony light sloped over the rooftops.
In the new quiet, the storm’s signatures remained: puddles tessellated the pavement, reflecting chimneys; droplets beaded the washing line; leaves lay splayed like damp hands along the kerb. Somewhere, a blackbird tried a note. The air, cooler now, smelt clean—emptied of its weight. At the doorway I looked up; the last rumble loitered on the horizon, grudging, and the wet world shone as if new.
Option B:
Afternoon. The hour that should have been lazy, light-slung, lit by bees and warm pavement. But the sky had other plans; it drew a slate-grey curtain across the sun, and a hush pressed on the town that was almost reverent. The heat that had lacquered the high street all morning lifted, as if unhooked; idle wind found its purpose.
As pigeons shuffled on the church eaves, Mara recalibrated her steps; what should have been a five-minute drift to the bakery became a purposeful walk. She liked days she could predict: lists on the fridge, times underlined. Bread, stamps, the bag of old paperbacks—manageable things. Then the air altered. It smelled metallic; the fine hair on her arms rose.
The first drop struck pavement with the authority of a bell. Second, sharper. Then the sky unloaded without preface: hail, white and hard, marbles rolling from an overturned jar. Canopies snapped; a sandwich board toppled; chairs skittered. The town became an instrument—tin roofs drummed, car bonnets pinged. Her paper bag wilted. She folded into the weather and lunged for the nearest doorway: the launderette, door wedged open with a scuffed trainer, sign humming. Inside, warm, lemon-bright air; machines turning and turning, round windows swallowing socks and secrets. A boy counted hailstones, delighted and a little afraid. A woman with a ruined red umbrella (it sagged like a wounded poppy) laughed, breathless. “Didn’t see that coming,” she said. “You and me both,” the man behind the counter replied, offering towels like truce flags and glancing at the pane where ice pinged.
Shelter is louder than you expect. It is the arpeggio of suds and the thud of the largest machine; it is breath, wet wool, and the careful silence strangers make when they are suddenly together. Mara set the bag on a plastic chair, watched a silver thread of water creep under the door, and tried to slow her pulse. She had not planned for this; of course she hadn’t. How would anyone plan for the sky to throw stones? Yet beneath the brightness and rattle there was a pause she recognised: the enforced stillness in which you notice chipped tile, wrist-veins, flicker of the sign. A hairline crack laced the top corner of the window. Someone gasped. Outside, the street blurred into a white, impatient river; inside, they adjusted, shifted bags, offered napkins, pretended. Mara breathed, counted three, and stayed. The unexpected had found them; the shelter held. For now.
- Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)
Option A:
At first, the air felt heavy—too warm, too still. Terrace houses crouched under a sky the colour of bruised plums, their chimneys thin silhouettes against a swelling ceiling of cloud. Washing hung slack; the road lay empty. The street waited, the clouds held their breath.
Then the wind arrived. A quick breath slid down the alley, then another; bins rattled, a gate juddered. Leaves lifted and jittered. The first drop was fat and sudden, a cold coin slapped onto a cheek. Another. Then many. Without ceremony, it broke.
Rain hammered the roofs like urgent fingers. It poured and poured, vigorous, relentless, filling gutters until they gurgled and spat. Slate turned slick; brick deepened; the road spread a thin, tinny sheen, then a sheet, then a stream. Windows shivered; blinds trembled on their cords. People scattered—hoods up, bags over heads. A bus hissed past, throwing a skirt of water over the pavement. In the gutters, small brown rivers hurried, carrying leaves, wrappers, grit.
Thunder rolled closer, not a crack at first but a long dragging growl that made cups tick in cupboards. Then a white cut across the cloud—quick as a match—and the answering boom came hard on its heels. The houses flinched. Somewhere a shutter banged, then banged again. Beyond the window, the garden blurred; the hedge hissed.
And then, as quickly as it had crashed into us, it softened. The hammer beat turned to patter; the patter to a whisper. Drops clung to every cable and twig; a shy sun fingered through a tear in the cloud. Steam lifted from the pavement. Somewhere the dog barked again—as if to say nothing had changed—yet everything seemed newly washed, slightly off-balance.
Option B:
At noon, the town square drowsed in butter-yellow light. Stalls tilted under bunting; the brass band tested a slow scale; the smell of warm sugar curled from the doughnut van. My brother and I navigated puddles of shade between gazebos, his fingers sticky with lemonade, my coat at home because June was meant to be dependable; the sky, a blank sheet. People laughed easily. A dog blinked in the sun, bored and content. If you had asked me then what we might need shelter from, I would have said nothing more than the usual — a passing shower, perhaps, a gust that nudged napkins into flight.
At first, the change was small: a grey thumbprint above the clock tower. Then the light thinned, as if someone had turned the dimmer switch down over the whole town. A quiet travelled through the crowd. The first tap on the canvas sounded like a coin dropped; the second was sharper. Hail — in June. White beads jumped in place on tabletops, skittered off plastic chairs, gathered in the creases of flags. Within a minute, the storm advanced in full percussion; stalls rattled, and the brass band fell silent mid-bar. The square became a shaken snow globe, blurred and loud.
Run, I said, though my brother was already pulling me. The closest refuge was the launderette; its door was ajar, a bell ready to scold us. We lunged across the waxed tiles, skating on the wet that came in with us. Inside, heat breathed; machines churned in steady circles, a low, reassuring thunder. An elderly man looked up from a newspaper and tutted; a woman fed coins into a slot with the calm of someone used to storms. The bell clacked behind us and the outside noise dulled, still insistent. Hail strafed the windows, peppering the glass so that the world beyond turned to static.
Meanwhile, small kindnesses took root. A stranger passed my brother a towel; someone pushed a chair towards us; the woman by the dryer offered a biscuit with a shy smile. On the noticeboard, a child’s crayon rainbow shrugged in its thumbtacks. How could ice fall from a sky that had been so blue ten minutes ago? Weather is capricious; plans are, too. Yet here — in this humming, lemon-scented shelter — people gathered, shrugged off their surprise, and waited. Outside the square whitened; inside, we watched shirts orbit behind glass like pale moons and listened for the moment the drumming eased.
- Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)
Option A:
The afternoon sagged under a low lid of cloud. Rooftops hunched like shoulders, tiles taking on a dull sheen. The air had that metallic taste you only notice before rain; even the birds seemed to hold their breath. Curtains trembled, not quite moving, and the washing line ticked the pole—tap, tap—waiting.
It began with a white seam across the sky; a heartbeat later thunder rolled over the houses, making the windows quiver. A fat, cold drop hit my cheek, then another, then a rush. Rain hammered the street in slanting lines; gutters gulped; the road turned dark and slick. The noise became rough music: bins rattling and the steady drumming on roofs. Water leapt from the eaves in silver ropes, racing along the kerb.
Wind muscled in, grabbing the treetops until they thrashed like wet flags. A plastic bag skittered and slapped a lamppost. In the close, a cyclist fought his bars; a cat vanished under a car. Lightning flickered again and again, bright as cut glass; the world paused—one, two—before the sky answered. Who could ignore that warning? The storm felt alive, shouldering the town, pushing at doors, whistling through every crack.
As quickly as it had arrived, it loosened its grip. The rain fell to a nervous patter, then to a drip and a gurgle in the drains. Steam lifted from tarmac, a pale breath; the sharp smell of wet dust rose. A shy stripe of light slid under the clouds. Puddles held tilted chimneys. Everything looked rinsed but tired, the air heavy and clean at once.
Option B:
June had been gentle all morning, a soft hush over the high street, gulls coasting between chimneys. It changed in one breath. The light went thin, as if someone had turned the sun down; the air sharpened; then the first stone of ice struck the bus shelter roof. First a fizz of rain, then the sky began to throw. Hail clattered against the bakery windows, skittered like silver coins across the road.
I ran, instinct pulling me to the nearest open door: the launderette on the corner. The bell above it gave a frantic jingle; warmth hit my face; a row of machines turned steadily, like lazy planets. People poured in behind me—an old man with a terrier, two schoolgirls with streaked mascara. We pushed the door shut together and the storm slapped it anyway. Outside, hailstones bounced and burst, white and brutal. The awning down the street sagged and then split.
We stood in a damp half-circle, strangers. The hyper-clean smell of detergent mixed with wet wool and metal. The machines kept their patient orbit; their round windows blinked with shirts and sheets. It was a small planet—predictable, humming—while the street went wild. The attendant, a girl with bitten nails, handed out towels. Someone muttered about British weather and we smiled, relieved and a little shocked.
My rucksack darkened the tiles with a spreading puddle. Inside was the letter I had promised to deliver—urgent, they said—ink smudging along the edge. I pressed it flat with both palms. What do you do when the sky changes its mind? You wait. We waited; we listened. The storm drummed its knuckles on the glass like it had a point to make, and a siren joined in. When the lights hiccuped and the machines paused mid-spin, every face lifted, bright with the same thought: how long will this shelter hold?
- Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)
Option A:
Beneath a low, heavy sky, the roofs crouched like tired backs. A thin light hung over the street, pale and flat. The air was sticky, still; even the washing line did not bother to move. Clouds built at the edge of town, rolling in like spilled ink. People looked up and then back down, pretending not to notice, but everyone did. I could taste metal on my tongue, a faint tang before the first drop. Waiting felt loud.
It came suddenly. Rain hammered the road in sharp lines, needles stitching puddles together; gutters gurgled and overflowed. The wind pushed through the gap in the gate, prying and whining, banging it again and again. A flash—white and brutal—split the sky, and after a breath the thunder rolled over the houses like a drum you feel in your ribs. The world blurred. Chimneys shivered; the aerial leaned. Shouts were snatched away, voices shredded into the noise. The smell turned to wet earth and tarmac, strong and clean. My hair stuck to my forehead, cold. Bin lids cartwheeled down the path, silly and dangerous at once.
Then, just as fast, the anger thinned. The rain softened to a steady hiss, like someone breathing beside you. A grumble of thunder went away. Leaves stuck to windows and the street looked new. I stepped out, shoes sinking into little lakes: the world was dripping. Above the roofs the clouds still piled, dark as slate, but a pale strip opened. It wasn’t calm yet, not really, but it felt possible.
Option B:
Summer had been showing off: bunting flickering over the market, strawberries shining in paper bowls, the sea winking beyond the roofs. Heat stuck to my skin as I threaded through the crowd, a brown paper bag warm in my hands. Everything felt simple. Then the air changed. It went still, like someone holding their breath, and a low rumble rolled under our feet.
At first it was fine, just a drop fat as a coin, then another, pocking the dust. Traders glanced up, jokes paused. The light dimmed—unnatural—and wind arrived with a sudden shove. The first hailstone bounced by my shoe; the second hit my cheek sharp as a bee. In a breath the street turned into a drum, white ice ricocheting from metal roofs. “Inside!” somebody shouted, and everyone moved, bags, prams, umbrellas colliding.
I ducked under the bakery awning and the smell wrapped me—yeast, sugar, heat. We packed into the doorway, shoulders touching. The glass trembled; the noise was a thousand spoons in tins. Mrs Kaur from the florist was there, petals stuck to her sleeve. I wanted to run home but my legs anchored; the storm pinned us. The baker slid the bolt—gentle—and handed out tea towels.
We waited. We watch and listened; we counted between flash and crack. The world outside was a blur, a cold glitter. I thought about how quick everything can turn, how a normal Saturday can tip, and how sometimes shelter is just a narrow doorway and other people breathing with you.
- Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)
Option A:
The afternoon sky sagged over the terraced houses. Dark clouds gathered fast, like a bruise spreading across the horizon. The air felt sticky and still; even the birds held their breath. A smell of dust and something electric drifted down the street. At first only a whisper of wind moved the washing lines. Then a single drop hit my cheek, fat and cold, another on the paving, little circles wiggle in the puddles.
Suddenly the storm slammed into us. The sky ripped open with white light, and thunder rolled over the roofs like heavy carts. Rain crashed on the tiles, on the bins, on the cars—hard, insistent, endless. Windows trembled; fences shivered. The trees bent and hissed, their leaves slapped together. The smell changed to wet tarmac and sharp soil. People ran, jackets over heads, doors banging. I thought I heard sirens, or maybe just the wind dragging its voice again and again.
Then, as quick as it came, it began to fade. The rain thinned into a curtain, the thunder a mumble. Gutters overflowed, sending small rivers along the kerb. A cat darted out from under a car. The clouds moved on—leaving the street shining, and my heart still thudding.
Option B:
Morning had been easy: warm pavements, lazy gulls, the sky a flat blue plate. I carried bread and milk when the wind changed. It tasted metallic on my tongue. Clouds slid over the sun and swallowed it. The air went hush. I wasn’t worried; summer showers come and go, that’s what my mum says. Then a hard, cold drop smacked my cheek like a thrown pebble.
More drops followed, dense and fast. Suddenly it was hammering, not rain but hail, bouncing wild along the road, rattling against windows. A cyclist swore and tipped into the kerb. There was only one plan: get under cover. We ran for the chip shop awning—the only roof in reach. I thought it would pass; it didn’t. The hail cracked the sign and drummed like fists on a tin. It felt unreal, like TV.
We huddled together, strangers breathing the same damp air. The shop smelt of vinegar and old oil. An old man muttered, never seen July like this. I tried to count between the flash and the growl, but the sky kept cracking open. I watched the milk shiver in its bottle and held my breath, waiting for the weather to remember itself.
- Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)
Option A:
The clouds went black over the houses. The sun was there and then it wasn't. The air felt thick and sticky. It was quiet and wrong, like the day was holding its breath. The sky looked angry, like it was frowning at us.
Then the first drop hit. Tap. Tap. Then all the rain came at once, hard on the windows, like drums, beating, beating. The wind pushed the trees backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Bins skated down the street and lids rattled.
White for a second and gone.
Thunder boomed so loud the door shook, the dog hide under the table, there was lightening that cut the sky. The road turned into a shiny river. People ran but the rain ran faster and it gets in your collar and sleeves, it don't care. The storm keep going, again and again, until it was done.
Option B:
Monday. Hot, bright, boring. I was just walking with my bag to the bus stop, thinking about nothing.
Then the sky went wrong. A wind came round the corner, hard and mean, and little white stones started to drop, then smash, hail, bigger and louder like drums on a tin roof. It hurt my hands. It hurt my ears. People shouted and someone laughed but it wasn't funny.
I ran to the newsagent door, I squeezed under the little porch thing, me and a old man and a dog. The dog shook and the man said its just weather but I didn't belive him. The porch smelt like damp and chips, the floor was wet, my socks were wet too.
The street went empty, just the hail jumping up and down, up and down. I could of stayed still. I looked at the bus, it was stuck, lights on. I waited. I counted. One, two, three...
- Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)
Option A:
The sky goes dark quick and the clouds come over the houses. It was sunny then bang! it change. Wind push at the trees and the bins go down the road. Rain hit hard on the roof, again and again, it makes big noise. I hear thunder and see a white flash, like a line. My shoes get soak and the street smell wet and muddy. The window rattle and mum shout, close it now. The sea isn't here but it look like waves in the sky. I don't like it, my dog bark and I think of my homework for tomorrow.
Option B:
Morning looked normal and quiet then the sky went dark fast and the wind started, cold rain hit the road and my hair. I didn’t plan for it, I didn’t think of a coat. The noise was like a big drum on the bins and on the cars. I ran, feet splash splash, to a bus stop - to hide and to breath. It smelt like wet metal and chips. I was shaking and i think of my phone, no signal, no credit. A siren far away, or maybe thunder, I couldn’t tell and I waited and waited, just hoping it stops.