AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 What is said about communication between Wragby Hall and Tevershall village?: There was no communication between them. – 1 mark
• 1.2 What did the colliers do?: They merely stared. – 1 mark
• 1.3 How did the tradesmen greet Connie?: They lifted their caps to Connie. – 1 mark
• 1.4 How did the tradesmen respond to Clifford?: They nodded awkwardly to Clifford. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 resentment that came from the village. Then she hardened herself to it, and it became a sort of tonic, something to live up to. It was not that she and Clifford were unpopular, they merely belonged to another species altogether from the colliers. Gulf impassable, breach indescribable, such as is perhaps non-existent south of the Trent. But in the Midlands and the industrial North

11 gulf impassable, across which no communication could take place. You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine! A strange denial of the common pulse of humanity. Yet the village sympathised with Clifford and Connie in the abstract. In the

How does the writer use language here to present the divide between Connie and Clifford and the villagers? 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: At Level 4, responses analyse the extended metaphor, repetition and hyperbole in the repeated 'Gulf impassable' and 'breach indescribable', together with the dehumanising taxonomy 'another species altogether' and the regional marker 'south of the Trent', to construct an absolute, classed rift. They also explore how the exclamatory imperative parallelism in 'You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine!', the ironic reframing 'a sort of tonic', and the abstraction 'in the abstract' set against 'A strange denial of the common pulse of humanity' dramatise entrenched separation and detached empathy.

The writer employs dehumanising metaphor to crystallise the divide. Connie and Clifford “belonged to another species altogether from the colliers.” The taxonomic lexis “species” implies biological incompatibility, rendering social contact unnatural. The intensifier “altogether” suggests total separation, with no shared characteristics, foregrounding a rigid class boundary.

Moreover, an extended geographical metaphor constructs a monumental barrier: “Gulf impassable, breach indescribable.” This asyndetic, elliptical minor sentence, pairing abstract nouns with absolute adjectives, evokes an unbridgeable chasm. The anaphoric repetition of “gulf impassable” and the categorical clause “across which no communication could take place” amplify finality. The hyperbolic comparison “non-existent south of the Trent,” together with the proper-noun anchoring “the Midlands and the industrial North,” widens the fracture into a regional condition, suggesting systemic rather than personal estrangement.

Furthermore, the direct speech “You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine!” uses the imperative mood, exclamative force and syntactic parallelism to codify segregation. The mirrored clauses aurally enact two camps facing off, turning distance into a rule and normalising mutual exclusion.

Additionally, the abstract phrasing “A strange denial of the common pulse of humanity” personifies humanity as a shared “pulse,” implying a natural heartbeat wilfully stifled. The evaluative noun “denial” frames the divide as morally aberrant. Even the concessive “Yet the village sympathised… in the abstract” undercuts compassion: the adjective “abstract” signals theoretical, disembodied goodwill that never crosses the gulf.

Finally, Connie’s response is rendered through bodily and medicinal imagery: she “hardened herself” and the hostility “became a sort of tonic.” The verb “hardened” suggests defensive armouring, while “tonic” implies a bracing but bitter stimulus to “live up to,” showing how opposition paradoxically sustains identity and thus perpetuates the divide.

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 clearly explain how metaphor and hyperbole present an unbridgeable class divide: Connie and Clifford are another species altogether, and the repeated gulf impassable, breach indescribable implies a permanent distance where no communication could take place. It would also comment on repetition and sentence forms, noting the exclamatory imperatives You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine!, Connie’s hardening—she hardened herself and made the villagers’ resentment a tonic—and the abstract sympathy in the abstract, to show entrenched attitudes and a denial of the common pulse of humanity.

The writer uses extended metaphors to present the divide. Connie and Clifford are “another species altogether from the colliers,” which dehumanises both sides and suggests an evolutionary gap. The repeated image of a “gulf impassable, breach indescribable” creates a semantic field of distance; the hyperbolic adjectives “impassable” and “indescribable” heighten the impossibility of crossing it.

Furthermore, sentence forms and repetition emphasise separation. The minor sentence “Gulf impassable” and its echo “across which no communication could take place” read like blunt verdicts. The exclamative direct speech, “You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine!” uses second-person pronouns and the imperative to dramatise a hard boundary, like a declared rule.

Moreover, abstract nouns and contrast underline the cost. The “resentment” makes Connie “hardened,” even a “tonic”—a metaphor showing she feeds on conflict. However, “a strange denial of the common pulse of humanity” personifies humanity as a heartbeat being refused, showing shared feeling is suppressed. The concessive “Yet” and “sympathised… in the abstract” signals distant, theoretical pity, not real connection.

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 metaphors like "another species altogether" and the repetition of "gulf impassable" to show a huge divide and "no communication" between them. The exclamatory "You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine!" and the phrase "denial of the common pulse of humanity" emphasise separation and lack of shared feeling.

The writer uses metaphor to present the divide between Connie and Clifford and the villagers. Calling them "another species altogether from the colliers" makes them seem like different kinds of people who cannot mix.

Furthermore, the repetition "Gulf impassable, breach indescribable" and later "gulf impassable" makes the barrier sound huge. The phrase "no communication could take place" shows total separation.

Moreover, the imperatives in "You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine!" and the exclamation make it sound like a firm rule, emphasising two sides.

Additionally, abstract nouns like "resentment" and "the common pulse of humanity" hint they should share feelings, but they only "sympathised... in the abstract". "She hardened herself" and a "sort of tonic" show Connie coping, not connecting, which reinforces the divide.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows the divide with simple features like the metaphor another species and repetition of gulf impassable to show they are very separate. The exclamation You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine! and the phrase no communication could take place suggest they won’t mix.

The writer uses a metaphor to show the divide, saying Connie and Clifford were “another species” from the colliers, which makes them seem completely different. Moreover, the repeated phrase “gulf impassable” and “breach indescribable” suggests a huge gap so they cannot mix. Furthermore, “You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine!” uses direct speech and an exclamation to sound firm and final. Additionally, “no communication” and “denial of the common pulse of humanity” suggest cold distance, while “sympathised… in the abstract” shows only distant, polite feeling.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Abstract noun sets a hostile tone and immediate social distance (resentment)
• Metaphor of emotional fortification shows Connie’s deliberate distancing, turning hostility into identity (sort of tonic)
• Negation plus downplaying adverb reframes the issue as difference rather than dislike, shifting focus from popularity to status (merely belonged)
• Species metaphor casts the couple as fundamentally other, intensifying an unbridgeable social divide (another species altogether)
• Collective occupational label reduces villagers to a type, sharpening the us–them boundary (the colliers)
• Elliptical, asyndetic fragments and hyperbole magnify separation as absolute, like a barrier no one can cross (Gulf impassable, breach indescribable)
• Geographical anchoring broadens the divide from personal to regional, implying systemic separation (industrial North)
• Balanced direct speech with imperatives and exclamation crystallises a mutual, rigid boundary as a social motto (You stick to your side)
• Moral/physiological metaphor judges the split as inhuman, rejecting shared feeling and community (common pulse of humanity)
• Concessive pivot limits empathy to theory, highlighting distance despite named sympathy for the couple (in the abstract)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how isolation deepens throughout the source
• how the writer uses structure to create an effect
• the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how isolation is layered structurally: the opening absolutes (no communication, none.) and the refrain Gulf impassable impose a fixed divide, while temporal sequencing (At first, Then) and choral imperatives like You leave me alone! deepen communal estrangement. It would then analyse the shift from communal to personal and inward isolation—blunt fragments (nothing.), oscillating characterisation, and a final zoom via distancing metaphors (microscope, telescope) towards the climaxing admissions not in touch and negation of human contact.

One way in which the writer structures isolation is through an establishing frame and refrain. The passage opens with the absolute, “There was no communication… none.” The minor sentence “none” and the list of negations (“no caps… no curtseys”) impose an immediate structural closure. This is reinforced by the anaphoric refrain “gulf impassable,” which recurs across sentence and paragraph boundaries, and the chorus-like interjection, “You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine!” Together these repeated structural signposts fix the social landscape as partitioned, shaping the reader’s sense of a barrier that cannot be crossed.

In addition, the writer engineers shifts in focus from the collective to the personal, punctuated by italicised communal interjections. The inserted voices—“You leave me alone!” and “We think ourselves as good as you”—interrupt the narration like beats, fragmenting the flow and isolating Connie’s tentative “overtures.” The tonal progression from “puzzled and baffled” to “she hardened herself” marks structural development; attempts at connection are followed by the summary closure, “There was no getting past it.” This move from gesture to gatekeeping increases the narrative pace towards finality and deepens the isolation, normalising distance as the new equilibrium.

A further structural choice is the pivot to an intimate zoom on Clifford. After the social panorama, the focus narrows to his body and bearing (the “wheeled chair,” the “Bond Street neckties”), creating juxtaposition between outward polish and inward severance. The closing parallelism—“He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch…”—forms a rhythmic crescendo that ends in the bleak coda, “a negation of human contact.” This terminal cadence echoes the opening “no communication,” forging a cyclical pattern. The sustained third-person focalisation, increasingly filtered through Connie (“Connie felt…”), ensures the passage culminates in private as well as public isolation.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer structures the passage to deepen isolation by moving from a broad social divide to personal disconnection, using repetition and shifts in focus for effect. Repetition of no communication... none and Gulf impassable sets the barrier; the shift to Connie (At first Connie... Then she hardened) and interjected You leave me alone!, alongside the contrast in the abstract... In the flesh, build mutual withdrawal, culminating in the final focus on Clifford—He was not in touch... a negation of human contact—to leave the isolation absolute.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create isolation is by opening with a panoramic overview and a refrain. The piece begins with “There was no communication… none,” and the repeated motif “gulf impassable” recurs across paragraphs. This repetition and summary perspective slow the pace and establish a fixed barrier at community level, immediately positioning Wragby and Tevershall as divided worlds.

In addition, the writer shifts the focus from the whole community to specific figures through listing and contrast. The catalogue of villagers—the colliers, tradesmen, rector, miners’ wives—shows failed contact, while the juxtaposition “sympathised… in the abstract” versus “in the flesh—You leave me alone!” marks a tonal shift from politeness to hostility. The dash-framed interjections puncture dialogue yet keep the sides apart, intensifying distance.

A further structural choice is the inward narrowing of perspective from society to individuals, then to interior thought. Attention moves to Clifford’s confinement and contradictory manner (“supercilious… then again modest”), before closing on Connie’s internal verdict: he is “not in actual touch… a negation of human contact.” This trajectory—from macro divide to private disconnection—creates a cumulative pattern in which isolation deepens at every level.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts by showing social separation with No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed and the repeated Gulf impassable, which structurally sets up isolation for the reader. The focus then shifts from the village to Clifford and Connie, ending on He was not in touch and a negation of human contact, so it moves from social distance to personal detachment to deepen the sense of isolation.

One way the writer structures the text to create isolation is at the beginning, using repetition and contrast between Hall and village. “There was no communication… none” and the repeated phrase “gulf impassable” set up a barrier, making the reader feel a clear divide.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts across groups – colliers, tradesmen, the rector, miners’ wives. This listing and change of focus, plus the repeated phrases “You leave me alone!” and “You stick to your side”, builds the sense that everyone keeps apart in daily life.

A further structural feature is the ending zooms in on individuals, especially Clifford, slowing the pace with detail about his chair and shy manner. The narrative moves from the community to inner feelings, closing on “not in touch” and a “negation of human contact”, deepening isolation.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a response shows simple awareness by pointing out the repetition of gulf impassable and You leave me alone! to show separation. It also notes a basic shift in focus from the opening no communication between house and village to Clifford being not in actual touch, suggesting isolation grows.

One way the writer structures the text to show isolation is at the beginning. It says "no communication" and repeats "gulf impassable". This repetition makes the separation clear.

In addition, the focus shifts in the middle to different groups, like the rector and miners' wives. This list and the repeated "You leave me alone!" show a barrier across the whole village.

A further feature is the ending moves to Clifford and Connie. Connie feels she "didn't really... touch him", so the structure goes from public distance to private distance, which deepens the isolation.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Abrupt, declarative opening severs Hall from village, establishing an isolating baseline for the whole extract (no communication).
• Cumulative minimisation and withheld rituals (listing of greetings) reduces contact to almost nothing, reinforcing social distance (that was all).
• Recurring refrain across paragraphs makes the divide feel inescapable and structural rather than situational (Gulf impassable).
• Temporal shift in Connie’s response (from suffering to hardening) shows isolation moving from wound to accepted condition (Then she hardened).
• Choral, slogan-like imperatives, echoed with dashes, dramatise mutual withdrawal on both sides (You leave me alone!).
• Expansion to civic roles shows institutions cannot bridge the gap, depersonalising even the clergy (to a nonentity).
• Layered free indirect voices of the miners’ wives create a barrier of suspicion that undercuts overtures, closing off connection (I am somebody now).
• Pivot from community to Clifford’s persona juxtaposes haughty surface with wounded reality, isolating him even within his class (a hurt thing).
• Distancing similes shift perspective to clinical observation, magnifying emotional remoteness into spatial distance (looking down a microscope).
• Final cadence of negations resolves the piece in existential solitude, leaving no channel for contact (negation of human contact).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 41 to the end.

In this part of the source, Clifford seems arrogant and superior in the way he treats the miners. The writer suggests this is just a way to hide the fact he is actually very shy and frightened because of his injury.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Clifford
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest his arrogance and fear
• 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, showing how the narrator counterpoints Clifford’s outward offensively supercilious treatment of miners as objects rather than men with inward vulnerability—he is shy and self-conscious, his eyes bold and frightened, even afraid of them after the great shock of his maiming—to argue that superiority functions as self-protection. It would also evaluate the writer’s wider viewpoint by analysing antithesis and distancing metaphors—he is not in actual touch, observing looking down a microscope, or up a telescope—to suggest that while fear motivates his hauteur, a deeper negation of human contact complicates any simple mask reading.

I largely agree that Clifford presents as arrogant and superior toward the miners, and that the writer suggests this hauteur works as a defensive mask; however, to say it is just a disguise simplifies a portrait that also exposes a deeper, class-bound and existential detachment intensified by his injury.

From the outset, the writer foregrounds Clifford’s vulnerability: he is “extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed,” and he “hated seeing anyone except just the personal servants.” The concrete detail of the “wheeled chair or a sort of bath-chair” stresses physical dependence. Yet the contrastive “Nevertheless” pivots us to a carefully curated exterior: he remains “as carefully dressed as ever,” with “Bond Street neckties,” so “from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever.” This sartorial imagery operates like symbolic armour, a synecdoche for class identity shoring up a damaged body; the ironic qualifier “from the top” implies a surface gloss concealing what cannot be made whole.

The writer then moves inward to his voice and eyes, using antithetical pairing to reveal a fractured self: a “very quiet, hesitating voice,” and eyes “bold and frightened, assured and uncertain.” These oxymoronic couplings, together with a manner “often offensively supercilious” but then “modest and self-effacing, almost tremulous,” construct arrogance as one phase in a pendulum of defence. The adverb “offensively” intensifies the judgement, but the trembling counterpoint invites us to read his superiority as a posture that intermittently collapses into fear.

Nowhere is this doubleness clearer than in his treatment of the miners. Although “in a sense, his own men,” he perceives them as “objects rather than men, parts of the pit rather than parts of life,” a deft antithesis that dehumanises through a semantic field of industry and science: “crude raw phenomena.” The twin similes—“like a man looking down a microscope, or up a telescope”—accent a motif of distance, while the animal image of their life “as unnatural as that of hedgehogs” further otherises. Yet the writer directly roots this detachment in fear: “He was in some way afraid of them, he could not bear to have them look at him now he was lame.” His superiority polices the gaze he dreads.

Finally, the anaphoric repetition “He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with anybody” accumulates negation—“nothing really touched him,” a “negation of human contact.” Filtered through Connie’s perception (“Connie felt that she herself didn’t really, not really touch him”), this focalisation suggests a profound incapacity to connect that the injury sharpens but does not wholly cause.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer crafts Clifford’s arrogance as a protective carapace for a “hurt thing.” Even so, the prose also implicates entrenched class superiority and a fundamental emotional disconnection. His hauteur is thus both mask and symptom.

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 mostly agree, explaining that the writer presents Clifford’s arrogance through his “offensively supercilious” manner and viewing miners as “objects rather than men,” but shows this masks vulnerability because he is “extremely shy” since being “lamed,” with “bold and frightened” eyes and distancing similes like “like a man looking down a microscope” and “up a telescope.”

I mostly agree that Clifford appears arrogant and superior towards the miners, and the writer suggests this superiority is a defensive mask for shyness and fear after his injury. From the outset he is “extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed,” which sets a sympathetic tone and frames his behaviour as reactive rather than purely snobbish.

Yet he sustains a polished façade: “carefully dressed… by his expensive tailors” with “Bond Street neckties.” This costume works as protective armour; the semantic field of fashion implies a constructed surface. At the same time, the narrator offers antithesis in his demeanour: a “quiet, hesitating voice” and eyes “bold and frightened, assured and uncertain.” This deliberate juxtaposition exposes his inner conflict. The evaluative description “offensively supercilious” is balanced by “modest and self-effacing, almost tremulous,” so his hauteur reads as a pose he adopts when threatened. The metaphor “He was a hurt thing” foregrounds trauma as the root motive.

His stance toward the miners develops the idea. He views them as “objects rather than men… parts of the pit rather than parts of life,” a dehumanising list that asserts superiority. The similes “like a man looking down a microscope, or up a telescope” create scientific distance, as if they are specimens under observation. Crucially, the writer makes the fear explicit: he was “in some way afraid of them” and “could not bear to have them look at him now he was lame.” Structural repetition in “He was not in touch… not in actual touch with anybody” emphasises isolation, while the abstract noun “negation” (“a negation of human contact”) suggests emotional emptiness.

Overall, I largely agree: through antithesis, dehumanising imagery and repetition, the writer presents Clifford’s arrogance as a defensive screen for injury-induced shyness and fear. However, phrases like “his own men” and ties “traditionally, with Wragby” hint that class habit also sustains his superiority, not injury alone.

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, noting Clifford’s superiority in being offensively supercilious and seeing miners as objects rather than men, while also identifying his fear in extremely shy and self-conscious, afraid of them, and could not bear to have them look at him because he was lamed. It might also mention the simile like a man looking down a microscope to show distance and conclude that the arrogance hides he is a hurt thing.

I mostly agree with the statement. Clifford often appears arrogant and superior, but the writer also shows he is shy and frightened after his injury, so his attitude can be a cover.

The writer directly calls his manner “often offensively supercilious,” which makes him seem above others. He treats the miners as “objects rather than men” and “parts of the pit,” which dehumanises them and shows his superiority. The simile “like a man looking down a microscope, or up a telescope” suggests cold distance, as if he studies them instead of talking to them. Describing their life as “as unnatural as that of hedgehogs” also sounds sneering and dismissive.

However, the text also presents his fear and shyness. We are told he is “extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed,” and he “could not bear to have them look at him,” which links his fear to the injury. The contrast in his “eyes… bold and frightened, assured and uncertain” shows a split between the front he puts on and how he feels inside. His careful clothes—“Bond Street neckties,” and “from the top he looked… smart and impressive”—seem like a mask to keep up appearances. The metaphor “He was a hurt thing” and the phrase “almost tremulous” emphasise vulnerability.

Yet the repetition “He was not in touch” and “a negation of human contact” suggest a deeper problem: he simply can’t connect. Overall, I agree to a large extent that his arrogance hides his shyness and fear, though some of his distance seems genuine, not just a disguise.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree: the writer shows Clifford is extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed and afraid of them, yet he acts offensively supercilious and sees the miners as objects rather than men. This suggests he acts superior to hide his fear.

I mostly agree with the statement. Clifford often seems superior, but the writer also shows he is shy and scared because of his injury.

At the start we are told he is “extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed” and he “hated seeing anyone”. The adjectives make him seem nervous. He is still “carefully dressed” with “Bond Street neckties” so he looks “smart and impressive”. This feels like a mask to hide how he feels, and he is even called “a hurt thing”.

With the miners, the narrator says his manner was “offensively supercilious”, which shows arrogance. The simile “like a man looking down a microscope, or up a telescope” suggests he keeps his distance and acts above them. He sees them as “objects rather than men” and “parts of the pit”, which makes them seem less human.

But the writer also says he was “afraid of them” and “could not bear to have them look at him”. His eyes are “bold and frightened”, and his manner “assured and uncertain”, showing two sides.

Overall, I agree that his proud behaviour is a cover for his shyness and fear after being lamed.

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:

• Direct characterisation of arrogance; he is haughty and contemptuous to the miners, foregrounding superiority.
• Class disdain foregrounded; the narrator calls him altogether rather supercilious, especially toward anyone not in his class, showing entrenched superiority beyond mere performance.
• Uncompromising stance; he stands his ground without any attempt at conciliation, reading as a defensive barrier that keeps the miners at bay.
• Inner vulnerability exposed; he is extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed, supporting the idea that hauteur masks fear.
• Outward polish as mask; from the top he looked just as smart and impressive, implying presentation covers anxiety and loss of power.
• Striking paradox in description; his eyes are bold and frightened, revealing bravado overlaying insecurity.
• Fluctuating manner; he can be modest and self-effacing after being offensively supercilious, suggesting the arrogance is a reactive shield.
• Dehumanising perception; he sees them as objects rather than men, asserting superiority while avoiding human connection.
• Explicit fear and shame; he is afraid of them, unable to bear their gaze now he is lame, linking aloofness to injury.
• Scientific simile of distance; he is like looking down a microscope, signalling remote, controlled observation rather than engagement.

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A local theatre is collecting short, atmospheric pieces to print in its show programmes.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a theatre's prop store from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about something that goes wrong during a performance.

(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 door yields with a tired sigh; a thin ribbon of light uncoils across the concrete, stirring a galaxy of dust into life. The air is stitched with scents—mothballs, glue, stale perfume, the iron tang of old paint—an oddly consoling mixture, as familiar as an overture. Somewhere a rope answers the draught and sways: backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Here, time does not so much stop as wait—poised, theatrical—behind a curtain no one can quite lift.

Along the left wall the shelves stand in serried ranks, burdened and benevolent: a regiment of chairs (each with its own wobble); gilt frames flaking like pastry; dented tin crowns, foxed with age; rapiers sleeping in their scabbards; papier-mâché fruit too glossy to be believed; masks with mouths arrested half-open. Their eyes follow you, of course; their silence is articulate. A cat’s cradle of string binds parcels of scripts; labels in spidery ink whisper titles that once mattered, and still do.

Concurrently, above the ceiling, a piano feels its way through scales; the notes trickle down through the boards, a thin rain on the stored world. Who last wore this crown, this nearly-gold circlet with a seam that refuses to be invisible? Whose stage-laugh is still stitched into the crushed velvet cloak? The room bristles with such questions, and, obligingly, refuses to answer them.

On a battered trunk, a ledger lies open at an accidental page—Props: Act II, Scene 3. A flower girl’s basket (silk peonies shedding): two; bottle, glass, breakaway: one; letter, parchment, to be sealed with wax (fake): one. The handwriting slopes with urgency, ink blotted in places where the stage manager must have barked and scribbled at speed. In a hatbox, the scent of talc and the ghost of laughter; beside it, a single glove, pearl buttons dulled, missing its partner as though the duet had ended mid-phrase.

Light is stingy here. It falls from a single bulb and from a cracked mirror whose flecked surface returns a kaleidoscope of you—not quite you—entangled with feathered fans, a mannequin’s unblinking stare, a boa moulting iridescent dust. Around the mirror, dead bulbs make a broken constellation; fingerprints bloom like a palimpsest of touch and nerve. It is chaos; and yet it is choreographed. Every armchair with a yawning seat, every chandelier wrapped in gauze, every plaster column, every bundle of painted arrows knows where it belongs.

And still the room breathes. It creaks quietly to itself, a ship becalmed in the wings, holding histories in its timber. The ropes swing; the dust drifts; the shelves listen. For a moment the piano stops... then resumes, tentative, then braver, as above them the scene begins to find its rhythm. Down here the props wait—patiently, stubbornly, joyfully—to be believed in again.

When the door closes, the ribbon of light snips itself. Darkness reassembles with practised grace. Waiting.

Option B:

Curtains: velvet tides pressed tight, holding back a sea of light. Programmes rustled—little paper birds—then stilled; a hum drew itself over the audience like a fine veil. Dust danced in the limelight, slow galaxies turning, while the orchestra teased at scales, strings sighing, woodwind chattering; the stage waited, breath bated.

Backstage, Amara tightened the pale satin ribbons around her ankles until they felt like promises. Rosin dust floured her fingertips; the air smelled of hairspray, hot lamps and a faint, metallic anticipation. “Two minutes,” called the stage manager, and even his voice tried to whisper. Amara touched the tiny charm sewn inside her bodice—a talisman, ridiculous and necessary—and counted quietly, the familiar eight-beat rhythm soothing as breathing. Her heart wasn’t thundering; it cantered—contained, trained—at the gate.

Then light, a white shore she stepped onto. The wings fell away behind her and the auditorium opened, a dark lake pricked with faces. The first chords unfurled from the pit like silk, and she moved; the choreography inhabited her, muscle memory gliding ahead of thought. Arms carved the air; feet stitched the music to the floor. She felt held by something larger than her own effort, buoyed by it. Smile. Breathe. Suspend. Land.

On the third turn—a clean pirouette she had practised until the studio mirror admitted defeat—something tugged and let go. Not a crack, not exactly; more a treacherous whisper as the ribbon slithered free. Her left foot slid a fraction on the slick, black marley. A gasp stitched itself through the front rows. Her balance teetered, an overturned glass on the brink; then—contact. The stage met her hip in a blunt, bright thud that knocked the air from her throat.

Silence did not fall; it crouched. The music, obedient only to the conductor’s baton, persisted for a bar and a half then faltered, strings shivering to a halt. Amara’s cheek pressed against the floor. It was not smooth at all; it had a grain to it, like bark worn thin. She could taste dust, and the salt of her own breath. Somewhere, far away and embarrassingly near, someone coughed.

What does an audience do with a fallen ballerina? What does a ballerina do?

She turned her face, not towards the wings (that would be retreat), but towards the light. Rule one: do not apologise with your face. Rule two: if you must fall, fall in character. She gathered her knees beneath her, the loosened ribbon looping like a pale question mark around her ankle. Without fuss—without that frantic, revealing scrabble—she tucked it swiftly under the arch, a trick her teacher had insisted on learning “for the one day you hope never comes.” It had come.

She made the fall part of the phrase. An extra breath, a deliberate pause—as if the choreography had always intended a kneel, a rise, a sudden, softer beginning. The orchestra, after its hesitation, found her again; the flutes breathed with her. A smile—not pasted on, but a small, stubborn flare—found its way back to the corners of her mouth.

She stood. The light did not forgive or scold; it simply waited. And Amara, ribs aching, ankle prickling, lifted her chin and stepped into the next count.

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

Option A:

The door yields with a soft shudder, and the world of daylight is trimmed off behind me. Inside, light slants through a high grate in pale bars; in those bars, dust turns slowly, a patient constellation that refuses to fall. The air is a bouquet of oddities: mothballs, cold metal, a whisper of greasepaint, the sweet-stale trace of old bouquets pressed flat in forgotten programmes. Silence is not empty here; it props the room up, holding breath, listening; it feels, strangely, rehearsed.

Racks lean under garments heavy with other people’s gestures. A crimson cloak grazes the floor where its hem is fretted thin; a frock coat gleams with a tired sheen; a froth of tulle takes light and hoards it. There are hats—high, low, ridiculous—perched on foam heads, wigs with good hair days waiting. On a pallet, a chandelier lies like a sleeping jellyfish, glass drops veiled in lint; when I pass, a bead taps another, a small crystal chime.

Shelves climb to the ceiling in a precarious architecture of boxes: SNOW, LETTERS, TEA SETS, AMMUNITION (BLANK), FRUIT. Paper apples blush permanently; pewter mugs echo dully when nudged. A box of keys rattles with no doors to claim. Labelled drawers—knobs tarnished to a soft green—hide tin crowns with missing stones and swords swaddled in tape. Ropes are coiled to patient spirals; pulleys hang with bruised brass; a painted moon, chipped at its crescent, leans against a wall and watches with one gold eye.

Furniture is everywhere and nowhere—thrones with their velvet rubbed bare, a chair that wobbles and then decides not to, a table scarred by a century of clumsy elbows. Handwritten tags curl at the edges, slanting with urgency, as if the ink could run away. Mirrors, freckled and frank, return the room in soft, dusty halves. From beyond the brick, a piano climbs scales and stops; within, only small sounds persist: the drip from a pipe, the scratch of cardboard, the building’s long exhale.

Everything here waits. It waits for hands to lift and voices to claim it; it waits for light, for the gulp before applause, for the cue—Places!—that turns objects into instruments. Once these things were merely made; now they are stories with handles. I trail a finger along a balustrade and come away powdered, christened. Dust lifts, dances, and settles again—confetti that refuses to leave the party. The door gathers itself to close. Behind it, the prop store keeps time, almost content, almost awake.

Option B:

Light pools at my feet; so does the fear. The curtain breathes behind me, a velvet lung exhaling dust and old applause. I can taste hairspray and metal in the air, feel the boards flex, hear the audience hush congealing into a single expectation. We have rehearsed it endlessly—counted, turned, drilled until the choreography lived in the bones—but nothing rehearses the tremor that runs through a room when it is no longer a room but a judgement.

Backstage, I had chalked my palms and smiled at the mirror—fragile bravado, a paper mask. Ms Patel kept patting our shoulders in a metronomic mantra: shoulders down, breathe, trust the music. Trust the music. The advice felt simple, almost holy—talismanic advice (and utterly unhelpful without the talisman). Under the lights, it becomes a commandment.

The first beat is a door opening. I step through. One, two, three, four—hips, turn, reach; the bass stitches our bodies together; the crowd dissolves into a soft, salted blur. Then it happens. A hiccup in the speakers, a brittle crackle—and the music dies as neatly as a switch being flicked.

I am mid-turn when the world empties. My outstretched arm becomes a question mark, my smile calcifies. What sound does silence make when you’ve practised to a drum? The lights hum, a thin electrical whine; the audience coughs—a single, surgical sound—and the echo repeats in the ribs of the hall. Somewhere side-stage, a tech swears under his breath. Somewhere inside me, something colder than fear moves.

We look at each other—eyes like trapped birds—waiting for a restart, for rescue; none comes. My heart remembers its other job: metronome. One-and-two, three-and-four. My feet find the count laid into them by cruel afternoons; the slap of rubber on wood becomes a kind of percussion, a staccato hope.

I catch Mia’s wrist for the lift that always, always sails. Her weight leaves the floor a fraction too soon—my palms are slick—and for a suspended, impossible second she is a diorama of trust. Then gravity, impolite, interrupts. We stumble; her knee kisses the boards; there is a serrated intake from row C. A sequin skitters away like a fleeing star.

Mia squeezes my hand—I’m fine—and rises with a stubborn dignity that hurts more than the fall. The track limps back to life for a bar, warps, and dies again, as if even the sound is embarrassed. The silence settles, watchful. This is how a story unravels, not with catastrophe, but with a small, public falter you cannot edit or rewind.

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

Option A:

The prop store holds its breath, as if not to disturb the sleeping past. Dust floats in lazy spirals; a single bulb trembles on its wire and spills a buttery oval onto the floorboards. The smell is a curious mixture—mothballs, stale glue, a whisper of cold metal and varnish—thick enough to taste. The door, when it closes, gives a soft, apologetic thud. Even the shadows seem stacked, labelled, archived.

On the left, shelving leans under the weight of pretend lives: masks with fixed expressions; a cracked top hat lined with frayed satin; false swords with silver paint rubbed thin where palms once rested. A feathered fan keeps its colour, defiantly bright, beside a marble bust that is not marble at all. Thread spools sleep in a tea tin. There is a chandelier—miniature, elaborate, absurd—its glass teardrops dulled by a fur of dust, but still catching the bulb’s thin light.

Opposite, the costume racks sag with stories. Velvet capes cough up a powder when they are touched; sequins have turned from glare to quiet shimmer. A wedding dress, more cream than white now, is wrapped in plastic that crinkles like frost. Who wore it first, who last? Shoulder pads, epaulettes, elbow patches: fashions pressed flat and waiting. Meanwhile, furniture occupies the centre like patient animals. A chaise longue with a split seam; a throne with one missing finial; a dining chair that wobbles on three legs and refuses to admit it. Drawers hang ajar, labels curling: Act II, Banquet; Street Scene; Misc. A box of keys rattles if you dare move it.

Above, ropes and pulleys coil into themselves, a quiet trust. From the corridor comes the faint tinny buzz of a rehearsal; inside, only the hum of the light and the small tick of cooling metal. The floor bears a map of scrapes and paint-moons. It is cold, but not unfriendly. Here, time is patient. Here, make-believe is stacked and catalogued and still somehow alive. When at last the stage manager lifts a lid, or slides a hanger forward, the room breathes out—and all over again, the theatre remembers how to pretend.

Option B:

The curtain waited like held breath. The air smelt of paint, dust and lemon polish; the floor tape curled at the edges like old scabs. In the wings, we stood in a thin corridor of shadow, listening to the rustle and cough of the audience. Our school hall was theatre for one night, and it believed it. There was twelve rows of parents and one empty chair, a neat absence like a missing tooth.

Maya tugged her sleeve where a safety pin grinned, silver. Her palms felt damp, her mouth chalk-dry. She had practised that monologue until the words were soldered into her tongue; now they floated apart, slippery as fish. Ben squeezed her hand. “We’ve got this,” he whispered, breath warm, heart rabbit-fast. She nodded because saying anything might spill her cue.

The curtain climbed; a murmur rolled and then settled. Maya stepped to the chalk cross at centre, the light hot on her skin. The first lines found her, like stepping-stones she knew, and confidence trickled back. The audience dissolved to a soft black sea; Miss Patel lifted a thumb. Then, a small groan of timber behind the flats. The castle wall, hinged and hastily mended at lunch, gave a shy tremble.

At first the tilt was almost comic, a drunk leaning into a stranger; the painted battlements paused, then committed. Maya saw the shadow slide over Ben’s boots. She caught his sleeve and yanked him aside as the wall let go. It fell with a whomp and a smash of prop goblets, dust blossoming up like grey fireworks. A chorus of gasps rose. “Hark—the storm lays siege to our poor house!” she cried in her rehearsal voice. A few people laughed. She carried on, trying to fold chaos into the story.

However, the lights flickered—once, twice—and settled into a wrong blue. For a heartbeat the text fled. Her mouth found the line before the right one. She took it anyway; the stage does not wait. Stepping over splinters, she squared her shoulders. “For we are not afraid—” A floorboard complained, somebody coughed, and Maya kept going.

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

Option A:

The door to the prop store sighs on stiff hinges and a ribbon of light lies across the floorboards. High on the wall, a narrow window stares, and the light drops in a single stripe that shifts when a cloud passes. Dust lifts and twists like pale confetti; the air smells of mothballs, glue, and old fabric. Nothing moves, yet everything seems to listen, as if the room is holding its breath.

Shelves climb the walls: top hats, feathered bands, tin helmets, wigs collapsed like nests. A velvet curtain lies folded on a crate; its gold trim dulled to a brownish shine. A tall mirror, freckled with old silver, leans, its mahogany frame scratched. It keeps a hazy memory of faces—rouge and powder, a smear of stage blood.

Furniture crowds the middle like a small, peculiar town. There is a chaise with frayed seams, a brass bed, and three odd chairs. A chandelier sleeps in a wooden box, its drops catching the thin beam and breaking it into sparks. When I brush past, swords clink in their rack; a rustle answers from a forest of fake leaves. Loops of gaffer tape curl like shed skin on the floor.

Boxes stack to the ceiling, neatly labelled: Weddings; Kitchen; War; Storm. Labels are curling, the ink faded but stubborn. Inside are odd collections—chipped teacups, rubber bread, a fake newspaper with headlines promising disaster years ago. A mannequin waits in a faded suit, wooden fingers chipped, a smile painted too wide. The room is both messy and organised; chaos boxed and tied with string. Dust tickles the throat and tastes like chalk.

Everything here is patient. Coats slouch on hooks, masks stare and do not blink. They are all waiting, waiting for a cue. When the door closes, the dust settles—and the stories go on sleeping.

Option B:

The stage smelled of warm dust and hairspray. The red curtain looked heavy and it seemed to hold its breath. Lights blinked like nervous stars. Beyond them, the audience was a soft rumble I could not see yet. The speaker hummed, ready. It was waiting; so was I. I rubbed my palms on my skirt, feeling the sequins we had sewn on in a rush last night.

Backstage, bodies brushed past in clouds of perfume and nerves. Lila tugged my sleeve. “You okay?” she whispered. The answer was yes and no. Miss Avery clapped once, her smile bright but tight. “Counts. Breathe.” I tightened the satin ribbon on my shoe—again—and tried to stop my hands shaking. Five, six, seven, eight. We had practised this so many times; it felt almost safe.

The curtain rose. Light rushed over us and turned the audience into a dark lake. The first bar floated out; we stepped into the story our bodies knew. Then, halfway through my turn, the music hiccupped. It stuttered, scraped, and stopped. Silence dropped like a trapdoor. For a second there was only one sound: the soft slide of a shoe and the hard swallow in my throat.

I froze, arms raised. Someone in the audience coughed. From the wings, Miss Avery’s hand cut the air: carry on. My mouth went dry. The speakers were dead, but the counts were not. Five, six, seven, eight. I tapped them with my heel and met Lila’s eyes; she nodded. We moved together, letting our own breathing make a rhythm. The hall leaned in.

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

Option A:

Dust floats in the thin beam of light that squeezes through a high window, turning the air a soft grey. The prop store feels close, the kind of quiet that swallows footsteps, the kind that makes you whisper. Shelves lean under the weight of years; props are patient, they stand in lines. It smells of glue, old fabric and varnish, and a hint of damp. Cobwebs net the corners like curtains that forgot their cue.

On the left: hats, wigs, helmets and fragile tiaras. A velvet coat slumps over a mannequin with a cracked smile, its sleeve faded where a spotlight once burnt it. Sequins still try to shine. Who wore this, under those hot lights? There are masks with blank eyes that grin, and a fox stole that is more moth than fur now—soft, but sad.

To the right, furniture crowds the aisle. A throne with peeling gold sits beside three wooden stools, their legs wrapped with tape. There is a chipped teacup, a fake sword, a cardboard shield. I lift the sword and it is lighter than it looks; the handle is sticky, the metal cool. A rope coils like a sleeping snake. A moth jumps up, the dust stirs.

At the back, backdrops are rolled like carpets: painted forests, a city skyline, clouds that never move. A dead spotlight leans in the corner. The fluorescent strip buzzes, then flickers. When the door opens, dust leaps; when it shuts, everything waits again, and the room breathes.

Option B:

The hall hummed softly and the lights blinked awake in the dusty rafters. The red curtain hung like a velvet mouth, waiting to open. My violin sat under my chin, warm and slippery; my palms were little puddles. Beyond the glare, the audience breathed together: a tide at my ribs.

We had rehearsed for weeks; Miss Carter’s metronome clicked into my dreams. I knew the first movement by heart, nearly. Dad sat in row three with his phone off for once. I took a breath, the hall took one with me, and the conductor lifted his hand to fly.

Then the bow touched the string and something wrong happened. A thin, vicious twang sliced the air; the E string snapped and flicked my cheek. Pain stung—not just on my skin but inside my chest, where the tune lived. Silence. A cough. My fingers, trained to dance, froze.

Keep going, Miss mouthed from the wings. The pianist crashed into a helpful chord, a cushion, but it sounded too loud, like it was guilty. I tried to play on three strings; the melody limped and my bow squeaked. Someone giggled. Heat climbed my face. Do I stop? Do I run? My heart beat a clumsy drum. I glanced at the conductor and he made a tiny circle, meaning carry on: be brave. So I did the smallest thing—I hummed. Just a thread of sound, thin as fishing line, pulling the broken tune across the gap while the curtain finally breathed.

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

Option A:

Light slips under the door, a thin ribbon. Dust floats in it, lazy and slow. The air smells of old paint and damp velvet; there is the sharp hint of metal polish and glue, too. Everything is hushed, like the room is holding its breath. Somewhere a clock ticks, but no one answers it.

At the back, chairs are stacked in shaky towers, their legs tangled like tall insects. A cracked mirror leans against a fake door, reflecting a slice of the aisle. On a shelf: masks. Smiling, crying, blank. Their eyes seem to follow, even though they are only wood. A crown sits in a box, chipped and brave, like it remembers applause. Who wore it? A hero, once, under hot lights.

In the corner, swords rest in a paint-splashed bucket, next to umbrellas with hooked handles. Feathers drift from a ripped boa, sticking to the floor. A rough rope coils across a crate—the knot looks serious, a trick knot, used again and again. The labels peel off, names of shows fading away and away. It is cluttered, but kind; every object waiting for another scene, another night. I step back and the dust swirls, back and forth, back and forth.

Option B:

The hall hummed like a beehive; the red curtain hung like a heavy door. I could smell dust and hairspray. Backstage, my hands were clammy and my heart drummed. I didnt feel brave, I definately didnt, but I nodded. Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.

Miss Carter's whisper was a thread: 'Places.' We shuffled to our marks and stared at the glowing tape. The spotlight felt hot, like an iron. My first line balanced on my tongue.

Then it went wrong.

The microphone screamed, then died. My mouth opened but only a whisper came. Mr Evans at the back frowned. The paper moon swung because I'd nudged the stand; it thudded the set and someone gasped. I stepped to fix it, my shoe caught on the tape, and I half-fell.

Heat burned my cheeks. What now? I swallowed; the word stuck. Jess hissed from the wings, 'My lord, the feast is ready!' It came back to me. I straightened and threw my voice. It wasn't perfect - how could it be - but the story crept on. We couldnt stop, we were in it. Somebody laughed again, softer this time. The curtain seemed to listen.

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

Option A:

The prop store is at the back of the theatre. The door sticks, the handle is cold. Inside the air is stale, like old bread and paint. Dust sits on boxes and the boxes sit on more boxes. There are chairs with one leg shaky, and a red sofa with a rip that looks like a smile. Masks stare from a shelf; they dont blink. Lights hang but they don't work so a thin strip of sun comes under the blind.

I walk slow, the floor creaks, it is quiet except for my shoes, and a soft tick. Wigs sit on a cracked head. Costumes smell, sweat and glue. The smell is strong and kind of sweet, it makes you cough.

Everything waits. It feels like the room is sleeping, but ready to wake, when the show need it. There is a silver bell, I ring it once.

Option B:

Lights are bright and hot on my face. The curtain smells like dust, like old school books. I hold the paper. My hands shake alot.

Miss says go, the music starts but its the wrong track, it is too fast and loud. I step forward and my foot slips on a bit of tape, the crowd makes a little ooo sound.

Then it happens! The mic squeals like a angry cat and drops from the stand.

I try to sing but the words run away. I can hear mum somewhere clapping anyway, she is brave. I pick up the mic but the lead is stuck round the stand and it pulls, my costume rips at the side. People laugh and I dont know what to do.

I smile like it was ment to be, I keep going. Then the music just stops. I stand there, waiting.

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

Option A:

I open the squeaky door to the theatre prop room and the air smells old dust and paint, it sits thick in my throat and it is quiet. Boxes pile up, some ripped with tape, a chair with a wobbly leg leans. Masks stare with blank eyes, a clown smile looks wrong and wierd. Costumes hang like tired people, a cape drags on the floor and I step on it. There is a fake tree, there is a sword that is only wood. Outside someone laughs for no reason. Light comes in slow from a tiny window it don't move much.

Option B:

Lights. Hot and bright, like the sun in a box. The curtain shakes a bit, I can hear whispering and the smell of dust. I am in a shiny costume that itches, my hands are wet. The music starts, then the speaker crackles the mic squeels and everyone looks, I look too. My line comes and it goes, it ran away from me. I say nothing and there just quiet. The backdrop slips and falls on Jordan, he says ow! and laughs but some people don't. I think about my bus ticket and my lunch at home for no reason. I want to run off, my knees is jelly.