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).

• How did the narrator enter the house?: by a side door – 1 mark
• What was across the great front entrance?: two chains – 1 mark
• What were the passages like?: all dark – 1 mark
• What happened to the candle that had been left burning in the passages?: the candle was taken up – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 At last we came to the door of a room, and she said, “Go in.” I answered, more in shyness than politeness, “After you, miss.”

11 To this she returned: “Don’t be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in.” And scornfully walked away, and—what was worse—took the candle with her. This was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid. However, the only thing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked, and was told from within to

How does the writer use language here to build tension and show the narrator’s unease? 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 the imperative "Go in" and the adverb "scornfully" assert a power imbalance, while the self-correction "more in shyness than politeness", the parenthesis "—what was worse—", and the understated "I was half afraid" expose the narrator’s suppressed anxiety. It would also explore how removing light in "took the candle" symbolises vulnerability, and how the pacing and sentence form—especially the truncated clause "I knocked, and was told from within to", with the ominous vagueness of "from within"—suspend the moment to heighten tension.

The writer immediately builds tension through dialogue and an adverbial opener. The opener "At last" signals a prolonged build-up, while the curt imperative "Go in." is monosyllabic and commanding. The narrator's deferential reply, "more in shyness than politeness, 'After you, miss,'" uses an aside to expose his unease; the comparative "more in... than..." foregrounds fear masked as manners.

Furthermore, the direct speech "Don't be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in" contains a belittling vocative "boy" and a dismissive imperative, sharpening the power imbalance. The adverb of manner "scornfully" colours her departure, and the parenthetical aside "—what was worse—" heightens dread. Symbolically, she "took the candle," withdrawing light and plunging him into literal and metaphorical uncertainty; the removal of illumination renders the unseen beyond the door more menacing.

Moreover, the simple declaratives "This was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid" underplay his fear through litotes; the measured tone paradoxically intensifies the reader's sense of suppressed panic. Structurally, the periodic sentence "However, the only thing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked" delays the decisive verb, so the action arrives after a suspended preface, stretching the moment. The echoing repetition of "knock" mimics the sound and amplifies anticipation, while the deictic "from within" hints at a concealed presence. Finally, the truncated clause "told from within to" leaves the syntax hanging, a deliberate fragment that acts as a cliffhanger, sustaining tension and crystallising the narrator's unresolved anxiety.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer builds tension through curt, dismissive dialogue like "Go in." and "Don’t be ridiculous, boy; I am not going in.", while the adverb "scornfully" and the dash aside "—what was worse—" with "took the candle with her" remove light and safety to isolate the narrator. His unease is explicit in "I was half afraid", and reinforced by the hesitant, complex structure "However, the only thing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked", the repetition of "knock", and the unseen threat implied by "from within".

The writer uses direct speech and an imperative to create immediate pressure: “Go in.” This short sentence, delivered at the “door” — a threshold — builds tension, while “At last” suggests a long approach that heightens anticipation. The narrator’s reply, “After you, miss,” framed by the aside “more in shyness than politeness,” functions as a parenthetical comment that reveals his unease; he hides reluctance behind politeness to delay entering.

Furthermore, the adverb “scornfully” conveys the woman’s contempt, intensifying his discomfort. The dash and parenthesis—“what was worse”—add an anxious, evaluative aside, and the action “took the candle with her” uses symbolism: the removal of light plunges him into uncertainty, which increases the tension.

Moreover, the evaluative adjective and intensifier in “very uncomfortable” and the understatement “half afraid” show controlled fear, making his anxiety feel authentic. The complex sentence “However, the only thing to be done being to knock at the door, I knocked” employs the connective “However” and repetition of “knock/knocked” to suggest hesitant, forced action. Finally, the clause “was told from within to” breaks off; this truncated ending creates a cliff-hanger, leaving the reader in suspense. Overall, these choices build tension and clearly present the narrator’s unease.

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 abrupt commands like 'Go in' and 'Don't be ridiculous', and the adverb 'scornfully', to create tension, while the phrase '—what was worse—' shows things getting worse. Taking 'the candle' makes it feel darker, and the simple line 'I was half afraid' with the repetition of 'knock'/'knocked' shows the narrator’s unease.

The writer uses direct speech and imperatives to build tension. The order “Go in” and the reply “Don’t be ridiculous, boy” sound sharp, and the adverb “scornfully” shows her contempt. This makes the narrator feel small and uneasy, as shown by “more in shyness than politeness.”

Furthermore, the image of darkness increases fear. She “took the candle with her,” which suggests the light and safety are removed. The parenthesis with dashes—“what was worse”—shows the narrator’s anxious aside, adding to the pressure.

Additionally, sentence forms show his unease. The simple line “This was very uncomfortable, and I was half afraid” states his feelings clearly, while the longer, hesitant clause “the only thing to be done being to knock at the door” suggests uncertainty. The repetition of “knock/knocked” shows he forces himself on. The unfinished ending “was told from within to” creates suspense, leaving the reader waiting.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses the imperative "Go in", the harsh address "Don't be ridiculous, boy", and the adverb "scornfully" to build pressure. Emotive words like "very uncomfortable" and "half afraid", plus "took the candle" suggesting darkness, show his unease and create tension.

The writer uses the imperative “Go in.” to create tension. It is a blunt, short sentence, which sounds forceful and makes the narrator uneasy. Moreover, the adverb “scornfully” shows the woman’s harsh tone, and when she “took the candle,” the light is gone, which makes it feel scary and uncomfortable. Furthermore, the phrase “very uncomfortable” and “half afraid” directly show his fear. Additionally, the dash in “—what was worse—” interrupts the line, suggesting panic, and the voice “from within” adds mystery and keeps the reader on edge.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Temporal marker signals prolonged build-up and delay, priming anxiety — At last
• Imperative command exerts pressure and abruptness, pushing the hesitant narrator toward the unknown — Go in.
• Narrative aside reveals insecurity rather than courtesy, foregrounding self-consciousness — more in shyness than politeness
• Polite deflection shows reluctance and attempts to stall, reinforcing unease — After you, miss.
• Derision and categorical refusal heighten isolation; the semicolon makes the rejection more emphatic — boy; I am not going in.
• Parenthetical aside signals escalation and draws attention to the worsening situation — what was worse
• Removal of light strips safety and visibility, deepening apprehension — took the candle with her
• Understated admission hedges his fear, making it feel more immediate — half afraid
• Concessive pivot and inevitability frame a forced action despite misgivings — the only thing to be done
• Unfinished clause withholds information at the crucial moment, sustaining suspense — was told from within to

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how claustrophobia builds 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: Tracks the movement from the barred threshold (two chains) through dark passages to the artificial brightness of a room with No glimpse of daylight, showing how this inward journey and the withdrawal of light (took the candle) compresses space and heightens claustrophobia. A Level 4 response also links stasis and control to the effect by analysing accumulation (confusedly heaped), anaphoric focus (I saw), frozen time (twenty minutes to nine), and tightening imperatives (Come close, Play) that entrap both narrator and reader.

One way the writer structures claustrophobia is through a spatial trajectory that narrows escape. We begin at a “side door” while the “great front entrance” is barred with “two chains” – a threshold motif signalling restriction. Movement “through more passages and up a staircase” repeats and delays, and the connective “At last” marks a pressured arrival. Focus tightens as the guide “took the candle with her,” withdrawing the only light, so the boy must knock, be told to “enter,” and then “entered” – a pattern of compulsion that confines him.

In addition, once inside, the writer slows the pace and uses zooming and accumulation to make the interior oppressive. Although “pretty large,” the room has “No glimpse of daylight,” sealing it off. The description proceeds by an accretive list of objects “confusedly heaped,” with half-packed trunks and bridal paraphernalia, producing visual clutter that feels airless. The anaphoric “I saw … I saw … I saw” traps us in a relentless inventory, while twin temporal references – watch and clock both “stopped at twenty minutes to nine” – impose stasis, time-claustrophobia.

A further structural technique is the sustained first-person focalisation and controlling dialogue that compresses proximity. Imperative turns – “Come nearer; … Come close,” “Look at me” – enact encroachment, while the embedded analepsis (“Once, I had been taken…”) presses morbid comparisons in upon the scene. The extract closes not with release but with another command, “Play.” This terminal imperative locks the encounter in, leaving the reader contained within Miss Havisham’s domain.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how the writer leads us steadily deeper through "passages... all dark" and "up a staircase", then heightens unease when she "took the candle with her", before confining the narrator in a room with "No glimpse of daylight" to build claustrophobia. It would also note the detailed listing and zooming in on decay ("faded and yellow"), the controlling commands ("Go in", "Come close"), and the frozen time at "twenty minutes to nine" that make the space feel trapped and airless.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create claustrophobia is through a linear narrowing of space. We are led in by a “side door” while the “great front entrance” is chained, then through “passages… all dark” and “up a staircase,” lit only by one candle. The cumulative, polysyndetic listing (“and… and…”) and the removal of the candle tighten the pace and the focus, funnelling Pip into darkness and making him feel watched and trapped.

In addition, when he “entered” the room, a shift in focus and contrast deepen the enclosure. Although it is “pretty large,” there is “No glimpse of daylight”: unnatural, sealed light. The narrative then zooms to the dressing-table and accumulates clutter—“trunks… scattered,” objects “confusedly heaped”—while anaphoric “I saw” and listing compress the visual field. The whiteness turned “faded and yellow” crowds the senses, so the setting feels airless and oppressive.

A further structural choice is control and stasis. Imperative dialogue—“Go in,” “Come close,” “Look at me,” “Play”—directs movement and removes Pip’s agency. Temporal stasis (both watch and clock stopped at “twenty minutes to nine”; she has “never seen the sun”) seals the room from the outside world. Brief flashbacks (“Once, I had been taken…”) intensify the deathly confinement. The sustained first-person perspective confines us within Pip’s unease, sustaining the claustrophobic mood.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds claustrophobia by moving us from a side door into passages were all dark, then removing the light when she took the candle with her, and even in the big room there is No glimpse of daylight and things are confusedly heaped. Simple structural choices like the delay in At last we came to the door and the clocks stopped at twenty minutes to nine make the place feel trapped and oppressive.

One way the writer structures the text to create claustrophobia is at the beginning, where we are led in by a side door and the front entrance has “two chains across it.” The focus stays on moving through dark “passages” and “up a staircase,” with “only the candle” to guide. This step-by-step sequence makes the place feel narrow and closed in.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts into the room and the writer uses listing. The things are “confusedly heaped” around the glass: “gloves…flowers…Prayer-Book.” This clutter crowds the space. Although it is “well lighted,” there is “No glimpse of daylight,” which makes it feel shut off.

A further structural feature is the first-person perspective and Miss Havisham’s imperatives: “Go in,” “Come close.” The close-up detail of the stopped clocks, “twenty minutes to nine,” at the end freezes time. This traps Pip and makes the reader feel hemmed in.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts with moving through passages that are dark and guided by only the candle lighted us, then into a room with No glimpse of daylight, which makes it feel shut in. Simple repeats like she took the candle with her and the clocks stopped at twenty minutes to nine show a trapped feeling.

One way the writer has structured the text to create claustrophobia is by starting in enclosed spaces. The opening shows a 'side door', chains on the front, and 'dark passages' with one candle, which feels shut in.

In addition, we move deeper inside to a room with 'no glimpse of daylight'. The list of objects 'confusedly heaped' and repetition of 'white' details crowd the space.

A further structural feature is short sentences and commands at the end: 'Go in', 'Come close', 'Play'. With perspective fixed on Pip and stopped clocks at 'twenty minutes to nine', time and movement feel blocked.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Blocked threshold at the start signals a sealed, oppressive setting that primes claustrophobia (two chains across it)
• Prolonged movement through interior spaces with a single guide-light narrows focus and disorients (only the candle lighted us)
• Sudden removal of that light enforces isolation and heightens anxiety before entry (took the candle with her)
• Stark contrast to a larger room that still excludes the outside deepens enclosure (No glimpse of daylight)
• Dense listing and clutter of objects crowd the space, making it feel airless (confusedly heaped)
• Gradual zoom-in via iterative noticing/anaphora compresses attention and traps the gaze (I saw)
• Intrusive, repeated flashbacks to funereal images confine the mood with sepulchral overtones (Once, I had been taken)
• Commands that reduce distance force proximity, shrinking personal space and pressure (Come close)
• Frozen time in synchronized devices creates inescapable stasis and entrapment (stopped at twenty minutes to nine)
• Declared long-term exclusion from nature seals the setting off from life beyond (never seen the sun)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, where Miss Havisham declares her heart is 'Broken!', she seems strangely proud rather than just sad. The writer suggests that she is performing her suffering for the boy and takes a boastful pleasure in it.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Miss Havisham's strange pride in her suffering
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey her boastful pleasure
• 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 Dickens constructs Miss Havisham’s suffering as performative for Pip: she orchestrates the moment with time "stopped at twenty minutes to nine", poses "Do you know what I touch here?", then proclaims "Broken!" with an "eager look", "strong emphasis", and a "weird smile" with a "boast", before commanding "Play." It would also register nuance, noting she "kept her hands there" and removed them "as if they were heavy", hinting at genuine burden beneath the display and thus critically engaging with the writer’s viewpoint through precise textual evidence.

I largely agree that Dickens presents Miss Havisham as perversely proud of her pain, theatrically curating it for Pip’s gaze. While the text never denies the depth of her damage, the writer’s language and structural choices suggest a self-conscious performance that turns suffering into spectacle.

From the moment Pip enters, the mise-en-scène is overtly theatrical: the room is “well lighted with wax candles” with “no glimpse of daylight,” an artificial illumination that feels like stage-light rather than life. The “gilded looking-glass” and “fine lady’s dressing-table” foreground self-display, while the cumulative, polysyndetic listing of “satins, and lace, and silks,—all of white” establishes a semantic field of bridal display now “faded and yellow.” This striking juxtaposition of “sparkled” jewels with the “withered” bride constructs a curated tableau of ruin: she is still surrounded by props of splendour, but she revels in their decay. The half-finished details—“but one shoe on,” the “veil… half arranged,” the “watch… stopped at twenty minutes to nine” (echoed by the clock)—become a motif of arrested time, as if she proudly preserves the exact moment of betrayal. Such meticulous staging implies not passive sadness but a deliberate, even boastful, museum of heartbreak.

Dickens also shows her directing the scene. Her imperatives—“Come nearer… Come close… Look at me”—control Pip’s gaze, and the hyperbolic self-fashioning in “a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born?” mythologises her deprivation. Pip’s ironic aside, “I regret to state… the enormous lie,” exposes the expectation that he should be cowed; she seems to want fear as validation. The macabre comparisons—“ghastly waxwork” and a “skeleton… lying in state”—evoke public spectacle: funerary display transformed into entertainment. Miss Havisham is not merely suffering; she is on exhibit.

The climactic exclamative “Broken!” is framed by paralinguistic “strong emphasis” and “an eager look,” capped by “a weird smile that had a kind of boast in it.” The explicit narratorial evaluation (“boast”) confirms the statement’s claim: she takes a morbid pride in the extremity of her wound. Even her gesture—keeping her hands on her heart then “slowly” removing them “as if… heavy”—reads like ritualised movement, a rehearsed gravitas. Yet Dickens complicates this with “I am tired,” before the commanding tricolon, “I want diversion… I have done with men and women. Play.” The brusque imperative reduces the boy to an instrument of her self-dramatisation.

Overall, to a great extent, Miss Havisham’s grief is staged with strange pride. Dickens’s symbolism of arrested time, imperatives, hyperbole and macabre imagery present suffering not only felt but performed—though the “heavy” hands and “tired” confession keep a pulse of genuine pain beneath the spectacle.

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 largely agree that the writer presents Miss Havisham as performing her suffering, citing the exclamatory “Broken!” delivered with an “eager look,” “strong emphasis,” and a “weird smile” with a hint of “boast” to show strange pride. It would also note how her gestures—“laying her hands, one upon the other, on her left side” and she “slowly took them away as if they were heavy”—together with her commands “I want diversion” and “Play,” both dramatise her pain and suggest she uses Pip as an audience.

I largely agree that Miss Havisham is strangely proud of her injury and performs it for Pip. Dickens shapes her entrance like a display, and her words and gestures suggest a kind of boasting; however, the imagery of decay also implies real suffering beneath the act.

From the outset, the setting reads as theatrical. The room is “well lighted with wax candles” with “no glimpse of daylight,” creating artificial, stage-like light. The “draped table” and “gilded looking-glass” evoke a dressing-room, as if she prepares herself to be seen. The repeated colour imagery of “white” that has “lost its lustre” and is “faded and yellow” suggests she curates a bridal tableau of ruin. There is a striking juxtaposition of “bright jewels” with “sunken eyes,” which underlines an unnatural pride in decay. Dickens’s listing of relics—“handkerchief,” “gloves,” “flowers,” “Prayer-Book”—“confusedly heaped” by the mirror, makes her seem to hoard props that keep the moment alive for an audience.

When she speaks, her language and delivery feel performative. Imperatives like “Come nearer” and “Look at me” position Pip as spectator while she directs the scene. She choreographs the reveal by touching “your heart” and crying “Broken!”—an exclamative uttered with an “eager look,” “strong emphasis,” and a “weird smile…a kind of boast.” Even the structural detail that she “kept her hands there… and slowly took them away” resembles holding a pose for effect. These choices suggest a boastful pleasure in displaying her wound.

Yet Dickens also shows authentic damage. Similes and gothic imagery—“the bride… had withered” to “skin and bone,” like a “waxwork” and a “skeleton”—make her pitiable. The symbolism of the stopped clocks at “twenty minutes to nine” and her admission “I am tired… I want diversion” hint at exhaustion rather than triumph.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: Miss Havisham relishes the drama of her “Broken!” heart, performing it with pride for the boy, but Dickens counterbalances that theatricality with signs of deep, frozen grief.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would mostly agree, noticing simple clues like the "weird smile" with "a kind of boast", her "eager look" and "strong emphasis" on "Broken!", and actions such as "kept her hands there", plus commands "Look at me" and "Play", to suggest she is showing off her pain to Pip. It shows some understanding by briefly commenting that these adjectives and the exclamation mark make her suffering seem proud or performed.

I mostly agree that Miss Havisham seems oddly proud of her pain and performs it for Pip. The writer shows that she is not only sad, but also showing off her grief to make an impression on the boy.

The room seems like a stage: a “dressing-room” lit by “wax candles” with “no glimpse of daylight”. She wears “satins, and lace, and silks… all of white”. This imagery and costume suggest show. Yet the white is “faded and yellow”, a contrast that symbolises a ruined bride. Both watch and clock “had stopped at twenty minutes to nine”, so she freezes time. Pip’s comparisons to “waxwork” and a “skeleton” make her look like an exhibit, which supports the idea of performance.

When she says “Broken!”, the exclamation and “strong emphasis” make it dramatic. The “weird smile that had a kind of boast in it” shows pride in pain. Her imperatives, “Come nearer… Look at me”, and then “I want diversion… Play”, show she controls the scene and uses the boy as an audience. She even keeps her hands on her heart “as if they were heavy”, a deliberate gesture to draw attention.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Although the “sunken eyes” and the body “shrunk to skin and bone” show real suffering, the writer mainly presents her grief as a display that she takes a strange, boastful pleasure in.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree, pointing out that she cries "Broken!" with an "eager look" and a "weird smile that had a kind of boast in it", so she seems proud of her pain. It might also notice she tells him to "Play", as if performing her suffering for Pip.

I mostly agree with the statement. When Miss Havisham says her heart is “Broken!”, she does seem oddly proud and like she is showing it off to Pip.

The setting makes her look like she is on display. The room is “well lighted with wax candles” and there is a “gilded looking-glass”. She is “dressed in rich materials… all of white” with “jewels”. This imagery makes her look like a bride in a costume, so it feels like a performance.

When she says “Broken!”, the exclamation and the writer’s words “with an eager look” and “with strong emphasis” show she is saying it dramatically. The “weird smile that had a kind of boast in it” directly suggests pride. This makes it seem like she enjoys declaring her pain.

She also controls Pip like an audience, using imperatives: “Look at me”, “Come nearer”, and finally “Play”. She even says, “I want diversion”, which sounds like she wants entertainment, not comfort. The clocks “stopped at twenty minutes to nine” show time is stuck, and she points this out so he sees her hurt.

However, when she “slowly took [her hands] away as if they were heavy”, that hints at real sadness. Overall, I agree she performs her suffering proudly, though there is some genuine pain underneath.

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:

• Description of expression: The “weird” smile is reported as having a boast, so her pain reads as proudly displayed rather than simply felt (kind of boast).
• Exclamative single-word declaration: The forceful, spotlighted admission feels staged, as if announcing a role rather than confessing a weakness (Broken!).
• Imperatives to Pip: Commanding and choreographing his responses positions him as audience to her performance, enhancing her control and display (Look at me).
• Colour imagery and decay: Preserved bridal whiteness turned relic suggests she curates her misery as an exhibit to be seen (faded and yellow).
• Clock motif: The frozen time works like a prop fixing the scene at the trauma point, implying deliberate, even proud, memorialisation (twenty minutes to nine).
• Grotesque comparisons: Being likened to a museum piece makes her more show than life, reinforcing theatrical suffering over private grief (waxwork and skeleton).
• Arrested preparation detail: The perpetual half-dressed state freezes an entrance, implying she sustains the spectacle of abandonment indefinitely (had not quite finished).
• Physical weariness: Moments of heaviness complicate the boast, hinting at authentic exhaustion beneath the show (as if they were heavy).
• Stated motives: Her craving for entertainment and rejection of society suggest she instrumentalises sorrow for effect on her visitor (I want diversion).
• Narrator’s reaction: Pip’s confessed deceit under her gaze implies he is managed by her display, evidencing its manipulative impact (enormous lie).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Your local leisure centre is creating a new display about personal achievement and invites creative contributions.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a solitary athlete from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about perseverance.

(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 track holds its breath at dusk. Lanes are ribbons of ash-white; the rubber gives off a faint, chemical sweetness. Floodlights blink into consciousness, cold moons hung on iron. Beyond the chain-link, the city hums; within, a low wind worries at discarded tape. Empty seats ascend like pale terraces of vertebrae. In the spread of that crepuscular hour, a solitary figure stands at the start, head bowed. The oval yawns around him, patient, unjudging: one circuit; another; as many as he dares.

He is built for absence: light, spare, almost ascetic—angles rather than bulk; economy rather than glamour. A thin scar bisects his left knee; his wrists are nicked with the red etchings of winter. He tightens his laces twice; he presses the watch face until it consents with a clean, clinical beep. Breath pulls at his ribs in small rehearsals. Shoulders settle. Eyes fix on the line that will unspool under him like a pale tether. He runs alone because the silence keeps its promises; because no voice can pace him as strictly as his own.

He goes. Not a stumble, not a flourish—just the quiet insistence of motion. The first steps are cautious, then confident—inevitable. Feet kiss the rubber in a rhythm that becomes a creed: two beats for breath in, two for breath out. Arms conduct the tempo; the track answers with a secret spring; the floodlights halo the sweat at his hairline. Lap after lap after lap, the lanes blur; the white breaks into staccato dashes under his shoes. He is both drummer and drum, both pursuer and pursued: his shadow lengthens and flees, then folds itself obediently beneath him.

Lactic fire arrives without ceremony; it blooms low in the thighs, then climbs like ivy. He does not fight it so much as negotiate, bargaining breath for distance, discipline for pain. A flag chatters on its pole; a whistle from some distant game frays and disappears. What crowd could teach him this steadiness, this useful loneliness? He counts—not numbers but corners, not seconds but shadows—and the counting steadies him. The watch ticks invisibly. And then, without drama, he eases to a stop, hands to knees, the world rushing back with a tidal hush.

Night leans in. Floodlights draw him in chalky light while the sky purples; the lanes reassert their patience. Steam feathers from his shoulders. He straightens, walks the curve, an afterthought of motion. If the stadium keeps any memory of him, it is thin as breath on glass—already fading, already gone—yet it is enough. He touches the start line once, a quiet superstition, and leaves the oval to its own breathing, its own slow heart, the solitude he will return to, again and again.

Option B:

Dawn did not so much arrive as negotiate its way through the greasy kitchen window; a thin ribbon of light threaded the table’s scratches while the metronome clicked with maddening patience.

Opposite me, Nan watched the card. BREAD. The letters looked bossy; she looked smaller than them. Her mouth opened, closed; not fishlike—because that would be unkind—but like a jar someone had tightened with needless confidence: stuck, squeaking, intransigent.

The kettle trembled towards a boil; the radiator answered with a cough. I steadied my voice. ‘B,’ I said. ‘Press your lips together, then let the air burst out. Buh.’ I tapped the table to set the beat—slow, forgiving, the way Miss Chang made me practise scales until my fingers memorised obedience.

Yesterday, the flashcards had cascaded to the floor like a white flag; she had cried, and I had washed the mugs and pretended I didn’t hear. Today, she stayed in the chair. That was something; small, invisible, enormous.

Again.

She tried. A breath escaped, soft and thin, more breeze than consonant. The sound fell between us and vanished as quickly as steam on the glass. Still, I nodded as if she’d split a mountain. Encouragement is a fragile architecture; if you don’t shore it up, it collapses.

Why keep going? Because that is the law of our house now: we do the little, tedious things, and we do them repeatedly until they change us. Dad taught me long division on napkins; Miss Chang squared my wrists above the piano keys; Nan laced my shoes when my hands were stubborn and sulky. It would be disgraceful (and dishonest) to quit.

Outside, a gull heckled the bins; a bus sighed; somewhere, our neighbour laughed at a television we could only hear, not see. Inside, time slowed its heavy tread. I lifted another card: TEA. ‘After bread, we’ll have this,’ I said, cheerful in a deliberate way. ‘First B. Then R. Then—’

‘Buh,’ she said.

It was barely a syllable—less even than that—but it carried a weight I felt in my throat. Her eyes widened as if she had found a coin in the soil. We both froze, as if the slightest movement might scare the sound away.

Then we laughed, not because it was funny but because relief trembles into laughter before it steadies. I put the card back in place like a medal. ‘Again,’ I whispered, my voice embarrassingly wobbly. ‘B.’

This is what perseverance looks like: not an anthem, but a hum; not a banner, but the ordinary stubbornness of two people in a kitchen with a metronome, a stack of cards and the belief that mouths remember. It isn’t glamorous. It is arduous and, sometimes, boring. And yet—

I wasn’t going to give up.

Nor was she. Her hands sat on the table, knuckles pale, but steady. The metronome kept counting; the light grew less apologetic; the kettle clicked off. We breathed together, in time, and tried again.

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

Option A:

Dusk drapes the track in bruised violet; the floodlights wake with a low, indifferent hum. Empty seats exhale a faint draught carrying cut grass, warm rubber, the metallic tang of effort. The white numerals on the lanes are ghost-pale; scuffs and scratches map past races. They step into lane four—habit, superstition—and double-knot the lace. A shake of the shoulders—then a long, deliberate breath that expands and settles.

The first stride is cautious, then certain. The track answers with a hushed reply underfoot. They run. Footfalls become a quiet percussion: pat-pat; breath counts—two in, two out. Arms carve arcs; the head settles on its invisible hinge, eyes held to the curve. Shadows lengthen, running alongside like a stricter twin. They move meter by meter, metronomic, not mechanical: a lithe patience in the hip’s flick, the knee’s rise, the shoe’s kiss and leave. At the back straight, the wind—thin, undecided—pushes, then slips away.

Alone by design. No partner, no coach: only the stubborn band of red and the small stadium of dusk. They come for the silence: a space where the mind can work clean (and unflinching). Here, the music is simple—shoe, breath, light, blood. They revise yesterday’s clumsy corner; they bargain with the ache under the ribs. They remember the last race—the stumble they couldn’t outrun, the roar that blurred into one pale wash. Solitude is honest; it refuses applause and excuses.

Laps accrue: five, six, seven—again and again. The curve bends toward a full stop; the straight is a brief clause of flight. Their lungs prickle; sweat salts the mouth; the shoulders complain, then quiet. They ease to a float, then a walk; the world widens, comes back into its edges. A dog barks; insects thread the evening; above the stand, a shy star steadies. They lean on their knees, studying the rubber granules like black sugar, then retie one loosened loop, breathe until the heart paces politely. Small against the sky, not diminished but defined, they stand in the quiet they chose. Tomorrow there may be noise; tonight the track belongs to one pair of feet, and the space between them.

Option B:

January had sharp teeth. It nipped ankles, gnawed at knuckles, and blew a pale mist across the abandoned track. Floodlights slept; the sky wore a bruised grey, reluctant to lighten. The rubber lane smelled faintly of rain and old victories, the kind that had posters and medals; the kind she had once imagined would come quickly.

Maya stood at the start of lane one with her laces untied and a knee that answered every cold morning with a stiff complaint. She twisted the lace, then another, fingers clumsy in the bitter air, and tugged the knots tight—double, then double again. The scar along her kneecap was a neat thread; last summer had been a crack and a hiss of pain and then silence. This morning was just a watch face winking 05:56 and a coach’s scrawl in her notebook: ten laps, steady.

Perseverance, she had learned, was not fireworks or banners: it was abrasion. The slow scuff of rubber on track, the patient counting of breaths, the decision you make when nobody claps. Why keep going when it hurts? Because stopping is easier; continuing is quiet and stubborn and somehow kinder to who you want to be. The thought wasn’t elegant, but it was hers.

Her watch beeped—an abrupt, practical mercy—and she ran. Left, right. Left, right. The cold hit like chalk in her lungs, dry and scratchy, and her leg complained in a small, sulky way. The first curve offered wind like resistance; the straight gave nothing back. She kept her eyes on the dull white line that guided her round and round, obedient as a comet on a small personal orbit. She could taste iron, hear her breath in uneven threads. She told herself, lamppost to lamppost—though there were no lampposts, only the fence posts—and then told herself, corner to corner. Sometimes the mind cheats; she let it.

At the end of the first lap, the temptation to stop flared like a match—brief, bright, persuasive. She did not. She moved into the second, shoulders low, mouth open, thoughts narrowing to small, doable things: relax your hands; lift your knees; breathe. A gull screeched overhead and was gone. Somewhere in the stands, frost cracked faintly. The city was still asleep, and that felt like a secret she could carry.

By the fourth lap she was not faster, but she was steadier; the ache in her knee had settled into a negotiable rhythm. Perseverance was not glory, she reminded herself. It was repetition with intention. She took the bend again, not dramatically, not heroically, but honestly, and as the horizon paled—slight, stingy, but still an offering—Maya fixed her eyes on the line and chose, simply, to go again.

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

Option A:

Dusk settles like a thin veil over the empty track, cooling the rubber to a dull maroon. Floodlights think about waking; one cracks on, blinks, and holds. Wind threads through chain-link fences, carrying a sawdust smell from the field. From the far bend, a solitary figure leans into a jog, then a run. No applause, no coach's whistle; only the faint click of spikes finding grip. The lanes curve away like promises. Between them, his shadow keeps pace, long and strangely faithful.

He moves with careful economy, elbows tucked, face set; concentration stitched into his brow. Breath comes in soft packets: two in, two out. His breath ghosts in the cooling air, then dissolves. Thud—thud—thud: the rhythm becomes a domestic metronome. Sweat beads at his temple, salt slipping to his lip; he tastes iron, almost tinny. His shoes are grey with use, laces knotted twice; the vest clings, a dark flag. Every lap narrows the world to a smooth oval; grass, chalk, paint blur into the same obedient line. Around him the seats bloom into shadow; they are empty but attentive. He circles like a lone moth around a cold orange lamp.

Beyond the fence, traffic sighs; beyond that, the sky bruises to purple, then ink. He is not racing a rival, not tonight—he is measuring himself against a time only he can hear. Who does he think of? Not much; the mind clicks into a room with one window: the clock. A stitch threatens, then fades. Knees lift, arms drive; discipline takes the place of thrill. He reaches the line again and again: a quiet drumbeat, continuous. On the sixth lap, the light smooths out and the stadium seems to breathe. He counts: seven, eight. There is an ache through the hip that feels honest, almost welcome. Then, with a last lean into the curve, he straightens and slows; the metronome unwinds. The track holds his footprints like minor dents; the air cools on his skin. Night arrives with no ceremony, and he stands, hands on hips, listening to his pulse steadying—an answer to a question he didn't quite ask.

Option B:

Before the sun bothers with our street, the alarm nags the dark. I reach, miss, then find it. Silence. For a moment, the bed holds me; I could stay. Then I remember the hill that beat me yesterday, the corner where I stopped, breath stuttering into the cold, and the word I promised myself: again.

The house is a stubborn accomplice to sleep. Doors sigh; tiles keep their cold. I move through the ritual — shoes, keys, a mouthful of tin-tasting water — until the hallway light slices a lemon rectangle on the mat. Outside, the air is glassy and tests my lungs.

At first, steps feel impossible; calves tug, ankles complain, breath snags. The pavement is a map I know: the cracked seam, the flickering lamp, the bakery’s yeast-sweet sigh. I pass them, then steadier. My mind makes its offers — walk, stop, enough — and I answer with the small, stubborn drum of my feet.

The hill waits, arms folded, pretending to be ordinary. Yesterday it took my breath and left me sour. Today I look up and think, briefly: what if not today? I shake it off. One lamppost to the next; one breath to the next. Knees lift; chest rises; world narrows to the patch of tarmac in my headlamp. The burn arrives, hot and insistent.

Halfway, doubt jabs. You’ve got nothing to prove. It is ridiculous, running up a dumb hill before dawn. Perhaps it is. And yet, under my ribs a quiet voice has learned persistence — inches, not miracles. I count — five, four, three — even as my legs argue, even as my throat scratches like dry paper. I don’t stop. The top comes without fanfare; a blackbird flings a song into the paling sky. The road waited for me, it always did, and I do not apologise.

I turn and let gravity carry me down, thighs fizzing, face hot against the cold. Lights bloom in kitchen windows. Tomorrow there will be another hill; there will be rain, or wind, or a reason to stay in bed. But there will also be this: the willing heartbeat, the next step, the word I keep like a promise — again.

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

Option A:

The track at dusk is a bruise-coloured oval, its white lanes chalky and strict. The stands sit like sleeping teeth; floodlights wake slowly, blinking one by one. A lone runner shakes out his arms at the start, his laces tight, knot necessary. He pushes back his hood and listens. The stadium makes small noises: the faint flap of a torn banner, the dry click of spikes on tartan, a gull wheeling somewhere he cannot see.

He begins quietly, as if the air might break. First strides are short and tidy; knees lift; breath rises in a pale thread. The rubber smells faintly of rain and something chemical, and the sweetness of cut grass hangs just beyond the fence. His shadow lies long, crossing each lane like a ruler. He does not look left or right; there is no one there anyway.

By the back straight, he has found a rhythm. Arms swing in balance, legs piston, the line of his mouth set. Lap after lap, he counts the same things to keep steady: four to inhale, four to let go; corner, straight, corner, straight. He is racing a clock that lives inside his head; his heart drums a stubborn beat. The track seems to breathe with him—out on the bend, in down the home stretch—and then it tightens like a string. Who is he racing? Only the ghost of yesterday.

He finishes one lap too many and keeps going. The light thins; the sky slips from lilac to ink. Sweat beads at his temples, cools, warms again. At the end he slows to a jog, then a walk, hands on hips, chest lifting hard. He stays there; he looks at the empty seats and nods, as if they were listening. Then he bends, touches the lane number, and starts once more.

Option B:

Morning didn't burst over the estate; it crept along the railings, leaving a faint silver on the parked cars. The air had a sharp taste, like the inside of a coin, and the pavement smelt of frost and last night's rain. Somewhere a fox scuffed a bin lid; somewhere a bus coughed awake. In this thin light the hill at the end of the road looked taller than usual, a shadow with shoulders. Maya stood at the gate, fingers numb on her laces—one lace stiff from yesterday's puddles—and listened to her breath building, slow and cautious.

She had promised herself—again—that today she would reach the radio mast. It wasn't far on a map: a pattern of streets, then the steep climb where the road kinks like an elbow. Last Tuesday she had turned back at the third lamppost. Her chest had pinched, her head had filled with all the reasons to stop: homework, blisters, the cold. Today she made a different list. One lamppost. Then the next. She tapped each post as she passed, like clocking in, counting her steps: four, eight, twelve. The metal left a damp smear on her glove and she didn't wipe it.

The hill did not care about promises; it rose and rose, stubborn and plain. Heat braided through her calves; a stitch needled her side. She could hear her PE teacher from months ago—discipline is a muscle too—though he'd said it like a joke. Step. Breath. Step. The words came like beads she could touch. A car rolled by, windows misted, music whispering. She thought about turning around. She did not. At the corner, where the pavement buckled, the mast showed, thin against a pale sky. It was still a long way, but she smiled, tasting salt and metal, and went on.

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

Option A:

Dusk settles over the stadium; the last light thins like smoke. The red track is damp from a light drizzle; it shines a dull, stubborn gloss. The lights hum and the sky is dimmer, it makes the track look like a ring of coal. He runs, a solitary figure cutting the same line again and again. Thud-thud, thud-thud goes his pace, steady as a clock. His breath ghosts in the cooling air; each cloud breaks apart and is gone.

Meanwhile, his shadow keeps pace with him, stretching then folding at each bend. Trainers scuffed, laces a little frayed, he moves with a small tilt, like the curve is teaching him. His jacket is thin and dark; the fabric clings with sweat. He isn’t famous or fast, not tonight, but he is determined. The track seems to pull him forward, the lanes are arrows. Wind nudges his ears. The empty seats stare like tall teeth, and there is no applause – only his own breathing.

Now he counts the white lines, one… two… three; he loses count, doesn’t mind. His legs ache but their moving feels automatic, a quiet machine. He runs for this: the sting in his lungs, the rhythm that settles his thoughts. A whistle once taught him to start; silence teaches him to keep going. The final bend comes soft, then sharp. He leans into it. At last, the straight opens, a line painted on rubber. He lifts, he stumbles a half step, then he lifts again, round and round.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour when the town holds its breath; streetlamps blink out, one by one, and the pavement glitters with thin frost. The hill at the end of Maple Road waited, thick and quiet, like a sleeping animal. Leah flexed her fingers, blew into her cupped hands, and listened to the slow drip from a cracked gutter. She could smell wet leaves.

She had run here every morning this month; she had stopped halfway every time. Last week she bent double by the leaning tree and cried. Today she tightened the knot twice. She remembered Mum’s voice at the sink—keep going, even when the water runs brown at first. Blisters, stitches, awkward breath: they would show up. Fine. Leah pulled her hood up, stepped onto the gravel, and began.

Left, right, left. Her feet tapped a small drum; the road answered with gritty scrapes. The cold bit her cheeks, sharp as nettles. Her chest ached—acheing, she thought, and tried to smile. She counted lamp posts. One. Two. Three. Don’t stop. Her lungs felt too small, stuffed with old paper. She stumbled, caught herself, wanted to quit. But the sky was softening from iron to milk, and she fixed her eyes higher.

What if she failed again? The question was a stone in her shoe. She pressed on anyway. The leaning tree waited, rough and patient. Near the bend, the hill steepened; so did she. Leah lifted her knees, heard her breath saw, saw her breath, and kept going.

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

Option A:

The track is a red ribbon under a bruised evening sky. Floodlights blink; the stands sit back, empty. A single runner circles lane three, growing and shrinking. Her shadow is long. The air smells of wet grass; it is quiet except for the thud-thud of trainers.

She runs. Alone. Arms pumping in a careful rhythm; legs like steady pistons. She breathes out pale vapour; it hangs, then goes. On her face is a tired kind of determination; nobody is watching, but it matters anyway. Lap after lap after lap. The white lines guide her; she follows, obedient but stubborn too. Sometimes she looks at the clock—19:43—then looks away; she doesn’t want it to judge.

Now the wind lifts, a thin thread of cold that slides under her vest. She thinks about yesterdays race and tomorrows too, so the present feels stretched. Her heartbeat drums a simple song; left, right; left, right. I can do one more, she tells herself, and then another. The sky darkens—the first star blinks. She reaches the bend and drives, not fast, not slow, just steady. It isn’t glory tonight: only the quiet company of effort, and the track that never leaves.

Option B:

The sky was pale grey and my breath looked like smoke. The hill behind the estate wasn't big; but it felt endless at six in the morning. My trainers were damp and my stomach felt nervous. I touched the cold fence and set a rule: don't stop. At first I ran too hard; my feet splashed in old puddles. After ten steps my chest burned, so I walked, then jogged, then stopped anyway. One more try, I thought.

I remembered what Miss Carter said in P.E., her voice kind but strict. "It isn't about speed, it's about stubborn," she'd said. Determination, that long word, sat heavy in my head. So I counted to five and started again: small steps, arms by my side, eyes on the lamppost halfway up. Then the wind pushed against me like a hand, but my feet argued and carried on.

By the fourth climb my calves burned; frost on the grass glittered. I wanted to lie down - I didn't. I had one rule: don't stop. Nearly there now. The lamppost came closer, slow as a tired clock. I reached it and leaned, gulping air, smiling because I had made it. Behind me the hill waited. So I turned again.

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

Option A:

He runs on the red track. The sky is going dark and the lights not on yet, so it is quiet. His shoes tap, tap on the lane. His breath is white in the cold air, it goes out and it comes back, like smoke.

He is by himself.

No coach, no team mate. The seats are empty, the flags don't move, the wind is small. He looks down at the white line, he follows it, round and round. He tells himself one more lap; then another one.

Sweat runs on his face. His heart bangs like a drum. He thinks about nothing, and also he thinks about everything, the finish, his time. The track feels long and also small, like it holds him.

He keeps going. His arms pump, his feet scratch, his legs burn. The sun is going down and the sky is orange. He is a shadow, and he don't stop.

Option B:

Morning.

Cold air bites my nose. I breath in and it feels sharp. The hill is big and long, it goes up and up like a wall. Laces frayed like straw.

Mum said keep going. She said, dont quit, not now. I start to run, slow at first, then my legs ache and my chest is burning and the wind pushes at me like a hand. I want to stop.

A dog barks. My socks get wet from a puddle and heavy. I sit for a second but the hill is still there.

I stand up again. Step by step by step. I count to ten and then I count again, keep going, keep going. my head says no but my feet say yes. The top is far but I look at the path not the sky. If I fail I will come back tomorrow because I dont stop.

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

Option A:

A runner is on the track, going round and round. He is alone and the sky is getting dark. The lights are not on yet, the track looks dull. His shoes thud on the red floor, thud, thud. I can hear his breath, white in the cold air, he breath hard and he keeps going even when his legs ache. No one claps. The seats are empty like a quiet mouth. He looks down, then up. He wants to stop but he dont. A dog barks behind the fence for no reason. The wind pushes at him and the lane numbers blur.

Option B:

Morning. Cold and grey. I drag my feet to the corner, trainers tight, heart slow. The path goes up and up like a big wall, I dont quit, I go. Mum says hurry but my legs are fire and my breath is small, I stop, then I start again. I count ten steps, then ten more. The wind pushes me back, I say no, not today! You just keep going. A bus roars by and mud hits my knees, kids laugh, i look down, then up. I ain't giving up. it takes time, ages and ages. I forgot my lunch but I still climb.