Mark Scheme
Introduction
The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.
Level of response marking instructions
Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.
You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.
Step 1 Determine a level
Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.
Step 2 Determine a mark
Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.
Advice for Examiners
In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.
- Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
- Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
- Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
- Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
- If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.
SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives
AO1
- Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
- Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.
AO2
- Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.
AO3
- Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.
AO4
- Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.
SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives
AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)
- Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
- Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.
AO6
- Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).
| Assessment Objective | Section A | Section B |
|---|---|---|
| AO1 | ✓ | |
| AO2 | ✓ | |
| AO3 | N/A | |
| AO4 | ✓ | |
| AO5 | ✓ | |
| AO6 | ✓ |
Answers
Question 1 - Mark Scheme
Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]
Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).
- 1.1 Who whispered at the card-table?: Miss Barker – 1 mark
- 1.2 What is stated about the whisperer’s knowledge of the game?: ignorance of the game – 1 mark
- 1.3 Who is said to feel at home in the dwelling?: Mrs Jamieson – 1 mark
- 1.4 What reason does Miss Barker give for feeling pleased during the card game?: Mrs Jamieson is completely comfortable in Miss Barker's home. – 1 mark
Question 2 - Mark Scheme
Look in detail at this extract, from lines 26 to 45 of the source:
26 loud snapping bark, and Mrs Jamieson awoke: or, perhaps, she had not been asleep—as she said almost directly, the room had been so light she had been glad to keep her eyes shut, but had been listening with great interest to all our amusing and agreeable conversation. Peggy came in once more, red with importance. Another tray! “Oh, gentility!” thought I, “can you endure this
31 last shock?” For Miss Barker had ordered (nay, I doubt not, prepared, although she did say, “Why, Peggy, what have you brought us?” and looked pleasantly surprised at the unexpected pleasure) all sorts of good things for supper—scalloped oysters, potted lobsters, jelly, a dish called “little Cupids” (which was in great favour with the Cranford ladies, although too
36 expensive to be given, except on solemn and state occasions—macaroons sopped in brandy, I should have called it, if I had not known its more refined and classical name). In short, we were evidently to be feasted with all that was sweetest and best; and we thought it better to submit graciously, even at the cost of our gentility—which never ate suppers in general, but which, like most
41 non-supper-eaters, was particularly hungry on all special occasions. Miss Barker, in her former sphere, had, I daresay, been made acquainted with the beverage they call cherry-brandy. We none of us had ever seen such a thing, and rather shrank back when she proffered it us—“just a little, leetle
How does the writer use language here to present Miss Barker’s hospitality and the narrator’s feelings about it? 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: Through exclamatives and asyndetic listing, the writer presents Miss Barker’s lavish, performative hospitality: Peggy is red with importance, an eager herald of Another tray!, while the list—scalloped oysters, potted lobsters, jelly, a dish called "little Cupids", glossed as macaroons sopped in brandy—and the parenthetical aside nay, I doubt not, prepared undercut her feigned modesty in "Why, Peggy, what have you brought us?", as the guests are to be feasted with all that was sweetest and best. For the narrator, irony and self-mockery shape ambivalence: the rhetorical address Oh, gentility!/can you endure this last shock?, evaluative contradiction in submit graciously despite being non-supper-eaters, and the diminutive repetition just a little, leetle, with dash-led asides, create a comic tension between propriety and appetite as they rather shrank back from the cherry-brandy.
The writer presents Miss Barker’s hospitality as lavish and staged through enumeration and ironic parenthesis. The cumulative listing of delicacies—“scalloped oysters, potted lobsters, jelly… ‘little Cupids’… ‘macaroons sopped in brandy’”—creates a luxuriant semantic field swelling into abundance. The superlative “all that was sweetest and best” and the verb “feasted” elevate the occasion, suggesting ceremonial generosity. The aside “(nay, I doubt not, prepared…)” punctures her “pleasantly surprised” performance, a parenthetical wink exposing meticulous planning. Peggy is “red with importance,” colour imagery that personifies the service and underscores the ritual grandeur of Miss Barker’s welcome.
Furthermore, the narrator’s feelings are comically conflicted, signalled by sentence forms. The exclamative “Another tray!” and apostrophic rhetorical question, “Oh, gentility!… can you endure this last shock?” dramatise propriety under siege, the hyperbolic “last shock” hinting at playful alarm. “Gentility” itself is personified—“which never ate suppers… but… was particularly hungry”—and the antithesis exposes self-aware hypocrisy: they relish what they claim to refuse. The collective pronoun in “we thought it better to submit graciously” frames capitulation as communal; the verb “submit” concedes that hospitality has an irresistible, almost martial force.
Additionally, class nuance complicates their response. The circumlocution “in her former sphere” situates Miss Barker’s expertise, while “the beverage they call cherry-brandy” uses distancing pronoun and periphrasis to mark novelty. Their verb choice—“shrank back”—suggests modest reluctance, yet Miss Barker’s coaxing diminutive and phonetic reduplication, “just a little, leetle,” soften decorum into consent. Thus, language renders her hospitality opulent, and the narrator’s tone amused and ultimately acquiescent.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer presents Miss Barker’s hospitality as abundant and eager through listing, exclamation, and parenthesis: the promise to be "feasted with all that was sweetest and best", the exclamatory "Another tray!", Peggy "red with importance", the aside "ordered (nay, I doubt not, prepared)", and the coaxing direct speech "just a little, leetle" all suggest lavish, hands‑on generosity. The narrator’s feelings are humorous and conflicted, using exclamation and rhetorical question—"Oh, gentility! … can you endure this last shock?"—and ironic contrast in "we thought it better to submit graciously" and "gentility—which never ate suppers in general … particularly hungry" to show mock shock at breached propriety while admitting appetite.
The writer presents Miss Barker’s hospitality as lavish through listing and superlatives. The catalogue of “scalloped oysters, potted lobsters, jelly” and “little Cupids” builds a semantic field of luxury, while “we were… to be feasted with all that was sweetest and best” uses superlatives to suggest abundance. The parenthetical aside “nay, I doubt not, prepared” exposes, with gentle irony, the effort behind her “pleasantly surprised” act, highlighting sincere generosity. Even Peggy is “red with importance,” implying the scale of the occasion.
Furthermore, the narrator’s mixed feelings are shown through sentence form and personification. The minor exclamative “Another tray!” and the apostrophe “Oh, gentility! can you endure this last shock?” convey mock-drama and a sense of being overwhelmed. By personifying “gentility… which never ate suppers,” the narrator satirises her own pretensions, while the verb choice “submit graciously” suggests reluctant acceptance in order to be polite.
Moreover, elevated diction presents both class and caution. “Proffered” and “former sphere” imply Miss Barker’s acquaintance with refinement, yet “we… rather shrank back” shows hesitation. Her coaxing, diminutive “just a little, leetle” softens the offer, emphasising eagerness to please. Overall, language contrasts Miss Barker’s exuberant generosity with the narrator’s amused, slightly anxious prudery.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer shows Miss Barker’s generosity through a list and positive words like "all sorts of good things", "scalloped oysters, potted lobsters", and "sweetest and best", while exclamations and a rhetorical question—"Another tray!", "Oh, gentility!", "last shock?"—plus verbs such as "submit graciously" and "shrank back" present the narrator’s amused surprise but slight hesitation (e.g., at the "cherry-brandy").
The writer uses exclamatory sentences and a rhetorical question to show Miss Barker’s generosity and the narrator’s reaction. “Another tray!” and “Oh, gentility! can you endure this last shock?” create a comic, overwhelmed tone. The personification of “gentility” suggests she worries about manners even as the food keeps arriving.
Moreover, listing and descriptive nouns present the lavish spread: “scalloped oysters, potted lobsters, jelly, ‘little Cupids’…”. The superlative phrase “all that was sweetest and best” and the verb “feasted” make her hospitality seem rich and determined to please.
Additionally, the parenthesis “(nay, I doubt not, prepared…)” hints she planned it, while “we thought it better to submit graciously” shows polite, slightly reluctant acceptance. Finally, verb choices show mixed feelings: they “shrank back” when she “proffered” cherry-brandy, but her coaxing, “just a little, leetle,” makes her seem warm and eager to share. Overall, Miss Barker is generous; the narrator is cautious.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might spot the exclamation "Another tray!" and the list of treats like "scalloped oysters" and "little Cupids" to show Miss Barker’s generous hospitality and make the supper seem special. It might also pick out "Oh, gentility!" and "shrank back" at the "cherry-brandy" to show the narrator’s polite surprise and hesitation.
The writer uses listing to show Miss Barker’s hospitality: “all sorts of good things… scalloped oysters, potted lobsters, jelly”. This makes her seem generous. The exclamation “Another tray!” and the rhetorical question “can you endure this last shock?” show the narrator’s surprise about so much food. Furthermore, the words “pleasantly surprised” and “feasted… with all that was sweetest and best” present warm, kind hosting. Moreover, “we… thought it better to submit graciously” suggests polite acceptance but slight discomfort. Additionally, the verb “shrank back” and the repetition “just a little, leetle” show nervousness about the cherry-brandy.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:
- Exclamatory minor sentence signals abundance and amused disbelief, making the hospitality feel almost excessive (Another tray!)
- Vivid description of the servant’s bearing conveys ceremonial bustle that elevates the occasion (red with importance)
- Apostrophe and rhetorical question dramatise the tension between propriety and indulgence, with a playful, ironic tone (Oh, gentility!)
- Parenthetical aside exposes polite pretence and careful planning, suggesting thoughtful, even eager, hosting (I doubt not)
- Opulent listing of delicacies creates sensory richness and a sense of lavish generosity (scalloped oysters)
- Contrasting “classical” name with plain description satirises refined airs while savouring the treat (refined and classical)
- Passive construction and collective pronouns frame them as willing recipients who choose courtesy over scruple (submit graciously)
- Comic contrast between ideals and appetite reveals gentle hypocrisy and shared pleasure (particularly hungry)
- Social hinting and the novel drink suggest worldly know-how channelled into welcoming her guests (cherry-brandy)
- Group hesitation met by coaxing diminutives shows soft pressure and warm persistence in hospitality (just a little, leetle)
Question 3 - Mark Scheme
You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the middle of a novel.
How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of warmth?
You could write about:
- how warmth 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 a cumulative build of warmth from intimate, whispered closeness—'at home', the refrain 'Very gratifying, indeed', and 'Hush, ladies!'—to an opening-out as the door is 'thrown wide open' and hospitality swells through list and narratorial aside (e.g., 'all sorts of good things', 'Oh, gentility!'), before a cherry-brandy pivot loosens reserve into a communal 'chorus of "Indeed!"'. It would also note the inclusive first-person plural (e.g., 'we were evidently to be feasted') and the playful exit—the sedan that 'stopped the way' and the chairmen’s 'pit-a-pat'—as structural choices that leave a lingering afterglow of shared warmth.
One way the writer structures a sense of warmth is through an intimate opening focus and sustained first-person focalisation. We begin in medias res at a crowded card-table, where “whispered” confidences and the motif of homeliness (“Mrs Jamieson feels at home… He, too, was quite at home”) immediately enclose us. The proxemics of “four ladies’ heads… nearly meeting” crafts physical closeness, while the gentle refrain “Hush, ladies!” punctuates the scene like a lullaby, regulating a soft, cosy soundscape. This close-up, domestic framing, mediated through the narrator’s cordial “I,” fosters communal warmth and readerly inclusion.
In addition, the writer orchestrates an incremental build in hospitality through temporal adverbials and cumulative listing to deepen warmth. Sequencers such as “Presently,” “once more,” and “at last” pace a series of generous unveilings: “Another tray!” ushers in a catalogue of delicacies—“scalloped oysters… ‘little Cupids’”—whose piling syntax mirrors abundance. Parenthetical asides and exclamations (“Oh, gentility!”) soften tone and create conspiratorial intimacy. The hesitant ritual of the “leetle glass” of cherry-brandy resolves into collective action—“Mrs Jamieson… and we followed her lead”—and the shared, comic “coughing” becomes a bonding set-piece, the communal pronoun “we” cementing convivial solidarity.
A further structural choice is the shift from present festivity to proleptic anticipation and then to a gentle denouement. The climactic disclosure—“Lady Glenmire is coming”—sparks a choral “Indeed!” and a swift, montage-like wardrobe “review,” projecting future gatherings and extending warmth beyond the scene. The closing sequence slows the pace as the sedan-chairmen “edge, and back, and try at it again,” with the onomatopoeic “pit-a-pat” maintaining a tender, domestic rhythm. By returning to Miss Barker “hovering… with offers of help,” the writer uses a subtle framing device that begins and ends with her solicitous hosting, sustaining a glow of warmth that lingers after departure.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: Typically, a Level 3 response would identify a clear structural progression that deepens warmth: beginning with hushed, inclusive togetherness at the card-table (Hush, ladies!, repeated very gratifying, characters at home), moving through a lively turning point when the door was thrown wide open and Another tray! arrives, and culminating in cumulative hospitality so we were evidently to be feasted. It would also note how the inclusive perspective and closing images (pleasantly excited, pit-a-pat) sustain a cosy tone, showing how shifts in pace, repetition and listing create a communal warmth.
One way the writer structures warmth is through the cosy opening focus at the card‑table. We begin in a small, enclosed scene, with whispered comments and “niddle‑noddling caps” leaning together. The restricted setting and slow pace, signalled by “Hush, ladies!” draw the reader into an intimate, domestic space. The first‑person viewpoint and Miss Barker’s “very gratifying... at home” add reassurance.
In addition, warmth builds cumulatively as the scene shifts from quiet play to hospitality. The door is “thrown wide open” and “another tray!” arrives; the list of “all sorts of good things” and “we were... to be feasted” suggests abundance. The focus widens from the table to Peggy, Carlo and the supper, while the inclusive “we” emphasises community. The quicker pace of arrivals deepens the convivial mood.
A further structural feature is a small climax followed by a gentle ending. After the cherry‑brandy, Mrs Jamieson reveals, “Lady Glenmire is coming,” a turning point that unites the group in a “chorus of ‘Indeed!’” Finally, the focus shifts to communal leave‑taking—the chairmen’s “pit‑a‑pat” and Miss Barker “hovering”—a change of setting and pace that keeps the tone affectionate and leaves lingering warmth.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: At first the text feels cosy with 'whispered' talk and the repeated 'very gratifying', then it warms up as the 'door was thrown wide open' and 'Another tray!' brings 'all sorts of good things'. It ends with a shared 'chorus of "Indeed!"' and the chairmen’s 'pit-a-pat', showing warmth spreading to the whole group.
One way in which the writer structures the text to create warmth is by beginning in a cosy, enclosed scene around the card-table. The focus is close on whispers and gentle commands like “Hush, ladies!”, and the repeated “very gratifying” makes the mood soft and friendly.
In addition, in the middle the focus shifts to food and sharing. The listing of “scalloped oysters… potted lobsters… ‘little Cupids’” and the cherry-brandy slows the pace and shows generosity. The first-person plural perspective (“we… we followed her lead”) gives a sense of togetherness.
A further structural feature is a change in mood before the end. The announcement of “Lady Glenmire” adds warm excitement (“We felt very pleasantly excited”), and the text ends with action that feels caring, as Miss Barker is “hovering about us with offers of help,” leaving a lasting homely tone.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the writer starts with cosy feelings like “very gratifying” and people “at home”, then adds treats (“all sorts of good things”, “cherry-brandy”) and ends with the lively “quick pit-a-pat” departure, so the structure makes it feel warmer.
One way the writer structures the text to create warmth is the opening focus on Miss Barker’s home and the card-table. Words like "very gratifying" and "at home" make it feel friendly.
In addition, in the middle it goes to a list of food and drink, like "oysters," "little Cupids," and "cherry-brandy." This makes a warm mood because everyone shares and coughs and laughs together.
A further structural feature is the ending, showing people leaving and helping. The narrator notices "chorus of 'Indeed!'" and Miss Barker’s "offers of help", so it ends with a friendly feeling.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:
- Opening with Miss Barker’s whispered pride at a guest feeling at home immediately situates us in an intimate, welcoming scene (It is very gratifying to me)
- Early staging of the narrator with her own table and candle foregrounds hostly care, personalising the space and tone (my especial benefit)
- Physical convergence at the card-table—heads nearly touching—visually compresses distance to suggest communal closeness (nearly meeting over the middle)
- The recurring hush/whisper pattern and Miss Barker’s mediation between sleepiness and deafness build a protected, cosy bubble (Hush, ladies!)
- The refrain of Miss Barker’s satisfaction operates as a warm motif, reinforcing celebratory goodwill throughout the scene (Very gratifying indeed)
- A structural jolt when the door flies open and fresh provisions arrive escalates hospitality and shared excitement (Another tray!)
- The cumulative catalogue of delicacies forms a rising crescendo of generosity, deepening the atmosphere of abundance and care (all sorts of good things)
- Group movement from polite refusal to shared participation in the drink bonds them through a small communal ritual (we followed her lead)
- After the drink, withheld news is released, turning present comfort into collective anticipation and social warmth (coming event)
- A gentle, communal close in the quaint departure sequence leaves a lingering homely afterglow through rhythm and routine (quiet little street)
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, where the sedan-chair gets stuck in the narrow lobby, it feels more awkward and silly than grand. The writer suggests that the formal, high-class ways of Mrs Jamieson don't really fit in Miss Barker's small home.
To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?
In your response, you could:
- consider your impressions of the sedan-chair in Miss Barker's lobby
- comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the social incompatibility
- 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’s gently satirical viewpoint uses bathos and incongruous detail to deflate grandeur: the sedan-chair squeezed itself into Miss Barker’s narrow lobby and most literally "stopped the way", the chairmen must edge, and back, and try at it again, while the shoemakers by day in strange old livery coeval with the sedan (Hogarth allusion), the onomatopoeic quick pit-a-pat, and Miss Barker’s hovering to conceal her former occupation all expose the social mismatch between Mrs Jamieson’s formality and the cramped domestic setting.
I largely agree that the sedan-chair scene renders grandeur awkward and faintly ridiculous, and that the writer gently exposes how Mrs Jamieson’s formal, high-class rituals sit uneasily in Miss Barker’s modest, constricted setting. Through an amused narrative voice, satirical detail, and pointed contrasts of scale and status, the extract deflates pomp into fuss.
Even before the sedan, the tone primes us for social incongruity. The cherry-brandy, described as “so hot and so strong,” provokes communal coughing “terribly,” a comic overreaction that undercuts sophistication. The simile “we all shook our heads like female mandarins” caricatures genteel refusal as stiff, puppet-like etiquette, while Miss Barker’s earnest naivety—“I often feel tipsy myself from eating damson tart”—further bathes the scene in bathos. The formal announcement—“the maids and the lanterns were announced”—inflates trifles with ceremonial diction, signalling a world that copies high society’s forms without its substance. Structurally, this build-up of minor pretensions sets the stage for the departure’s comic collapse.
The sedan is personified as it “squeezed itself into Miss Barker’s narrow lobby,” the verb compressing grandeur into ungainly contortion. The narrator’s meta-comment “most literally ‘stopped the way’” wittily literalises an etiquette phrase, puncturing ceremony with physical blockage. The polysyndetic rhythm—“to edge, and back, and try at it again”—mimics the chairmen’s halting choreography, making the exit feel fussy and embarrassing rather than stately. Diminutive spatial markers—“narrow lobby,” “quiet little street”—shrink the setting around the performance, so that the chair becomes a nuisance, its passenger reduced to a “burden.” The exit’s onomatopoeic “quick pit-a-pat” suggests scuttling haste, deflating any lingering majesty into a small-town scurry.
Costume and allusion sharpen the satire. The chairmen are “shoemakers by day,” only “dressed up” in “strange old livery… coeval with the sedan,” the archaism implying an antiquated, borrowed pageantry. The allusion to “Hogarth’s pictures,” famed for skewering social pretence, frames them as comic types rather than true domestics, reinforcing the idea of mismatched performance and place.
Finally, Miss Barker “hovering” with restrained offers of help, because she “remembered her former occupation, and wished us to forget it,” crystallises the social incompatibility: authentic service is suppressed to fit a genteel role that sits awkwardly within her own small home. Overall, the writer persuasively suggests that Mrs Jamieson’s ceremonials, imported into Cranford’s cramped domesticity, become quaint and slightly absurd—though the gentle irony implicates the whole community in the charmingly silly performance.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: Mostly agree: the sedan-chair feels awkward not grand, as it squeezed itself into Miss Barker’s narrow lobby and most literally stopped the way, needing skilful manoeuvring by carriers who are shoemakers by day in strange old livery coeval with the sedan, like something from Hogarth’s pictures. These comic details, plus the small-scale pit-a-pat departure and Miss Barker hovering about us because she remembered her former occupation, show how Mrs Jamieson’s formal display jars with the modest setting.
I largely agree that the sedan-chair scene feels awkward and comic rather than grand, and that Mrs Jamieson’s formal ways do not sit comfortably in Miss Barker’s small home.
The writer creates bathos through personification and ironic quotation. The sedan “had squeezed itself into Miss Barker’s narrow lobby” and “most literally ‘stopped the way’.” The anthropomorphic “squeezed” makes the chair seem ungainly, while the inverted commas around “stopped the way” draw attention to a cliché made laughably literal. The verbs in the triadic list “to edge, and back, and try at it again” suggest clumsy manoeuvring rather than stately progress, so the effect is more silly than splendid.
Social incompatibility is also exposed through contrast and parenthetical asides. The chairmen are “shoemakers by day, but when summoned… dressed up in a strange old livery,” which hints at make-believe gentility; the aside punctures the illusion of grandeur. The allusion to “Hogarth’s pictures” positions the scene as caricatured and old-fashioned, while “coeval with the sedan” implies the whole performance is a relic. The setting intensifies this mismatch: the narrow “front door” and “quiet little street” are too modest to accommodate such display.
Structurally, the awkward exit follows the excited “chorus” about “Lady Glenmire,” so the juxtaposition between aristocratic expectation and a cramped lobby heightens the irony. Even the onomatopoeic “pit-a-pat” of the chairmen’s steps sounds small and undignified. Inside, Miss Barker “hovering about us with offers of help,” yet restraining herself because she “wished us to forget” her “former occupation,” shows how the performance of gentility constrains natural behaviour—another “cramped” fit.
There is a trace of real influence—everyone “followed [Mrs Jamieson’s] lead” with the cherry-brandy—but overall the tone is gently mocking. Through irony, contrast, and comic detail, the writer suggests that Mrs Jamieson’s high-class formality cannot quite find room, literally or socially, within Miss Barker’s modest home. I agree to a great extent.
Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree, pointing to simple evidence like the sedan-chair "stopped the way" in the "narrow lobby" and needed "skilful manoeuvring" to "edge, and back, and try at it again", making it awkward rather than grand. It would also notice basic comic details such as the chairmen’s "strange old livery" and the "pit-a-pat" along the "quiet little street" to show Mrs Jamieson’s formality doesn’t quite fit Miss Barker’s home.
I mostly agree with the statement. Here the sedan-chair feels awkward and comic, showing that Mrs Jamieson’s grand habits don’t fit Miss Barker’s small house. Her formality seems out of place in this cosy setting.
Even before the chair, the cherry-brandy scene hints at mismatch. The simile "shook our heads like female mandarins" and their "coughing terribly" after the drink that was "so hot and so strong" make the politeness and fashion feel a bit silly.
The description of the departure makes the grandeur collapse. The chair has "squeezed itself into Miss Barker’s narrow lobby" and "most literally 'stopped the way'," so the adjective "narrow" and the listing "edge, and back, and try at it again" make a cramped, clumsy scene. The parenthesis "shoemakers by day" shows the chairmen are ordinary, and their "strange old livery" feels dated; the onomatopoeia "pit-a-pat" also lowers the tone. It reads like gentle comedy rather than stately ceremony.
Finally, Miss Barker "hovering about us," while remembering her "former occupation," suggests she wants to seem grand but can’t quite manage it. Overall, I agree that the writer makes the scene silly rather than stately to show the social clash, though the sedan still signals Mrs Jamieson’s status.
Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Shows simple agreement that the writer makes the scene awkward rather than grand, citing basic details like the sedan-chair in the "narrow lobby" that "stopped the way" as evidence that Mrs Jamieson’s formal style doesn’t fit Miss Barker’s small home.
I mostly agree with the statement. In this part the sedan-chair seems awkward and a bit silly rather than grand.
The writer shows this with words like “squeezed itself into Miss Barker’s narrow lobby” and that it “stopped the way.” These adjectives and verbs make the chair feel too big for the house. The list of actions, “edge, and back, and try at it again,” sounds clumsy, so the movement is comic, not elegant.
The people carrying it are “old chairmen,” really “shoemakers by day,” dressed in a “strange old livery” like in “Hogarth’s pictures.” This description makes the scene look like dressing-up, so the supposedly high-class transport doesn’t really fit. Even the phrase “most literally ‘stopped the way’” shows the grand thing becomes a nuisance inside a small home.
The sound word “pit-a-pat” for their steps keeps the light, funny tone. At the end, Miss Barker “hovering” and remembering her “former occupation” adds to the social mismatch. She wants to help like a servant but also be a hostess, which feels uncomfortable.
Overall, I agree that the writer suggests Mrs Jamieson’s formal style does not suit Miss Barker’s little house, and the chair scene makes that clear.
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:
- Physical comedy/staging → The sedan’s immobility turns supposed ceremony into farce, so the moment feels silly rather than grand (stopped the way)
- Spatial contrast → A high-status vehicle jammed in a cramped domestic space highlights social misfit between Mrs Jamieson’s formality and Miss Barker’s home (narrow lobby)
- Cumulative action verbs/repetition → The laborious process makes the exit slapstick, deflating dignity and reinforcing awkwardness (edge, and back)
- Characterisation of bearers → Local tradesmen doubling as carriers undercuts elite pretensions; grandeur is make‑believe and provincial (shoemakers by day)
- Satirical allusion → The reference invites us to view the scene as caricature, encouraging amused evaluation rather than respect (Hogarth’s pictures)
- Diction/denotation → Referring to the passenger as a load reduces ceremony to practical encumbrance, mocking grandeur (their burden)
- Sound detail → The dainty pace in a modest setting miniaturises the event, stressing small-town scale over stately display (pit-a-pat)
- Narrative irony → The anxious self-fashioning implied here underscores social incompatibility and the performative nature of gentility (former occupation)
- Costume description → Outdated, theatrical finery makes the spectacle quaint, not impressive, supporting the statement’s view (strange old livery)
- Limited counterpoint (status markers) → Formal trappings still signal rank, so a trace of grandeur remains despite the comedy (sedan-chair)
Question 5 - Mark Scheme
A new digital arts magazine is collecting creative writing for its first online issue.
Choose one of the options below for your entry.
- Option A: Describe a gaming cafe from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:
- Option B: Write the opening of a story about an online rivalry that becomes real.
(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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.
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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 sighs when it opens, and the dark inhales a wash of neon. Monitors bloom along the walls—squared constellations—casting a submarine glow across faces that lean forward. Dust drifts through the light like slow snow; posters curl at the edges, their glossy heroes caught mid-leap. It isn’t silent, but hushed, as if the room knows a secret. Screens ripple with jungles and starfields; colours look saturated enough to taste.
The soundtrack is patient machinery: the click-clack of mechanical keys; the cyclonic whirr of fans; the rubbery squeak of a chair’s complaint. Somewhere, ice knocks against glass, a neat, crystalline applause. Headsets murmur—teammates negotiate in abbreviations and urgency, half-whispered, half-commanded. Sometimes a shout splits the fabric—victory, defeat, lag—and then the hum reseals itself.
At the counter a barista tamps with priestly care; espresso blooms into the air, bitter and velvety, elbowing the sugary riot of energy drinks. The fridge is an aurora—cans aligned in chromatic gradients—while a chalkboard advertises in loopy optimism: pixel pancakes and dragonfruit soda. The smell is contradictory, almost comic: coffee, hot cheese, ozone, a ghost of rain brought in on jackets. Oddly, it works.
Here, however, the clientele is the true mosaic. A boy whose headset is too large sits regal as a pilot, eyes wide as planets. Beside him, a woman with cat-ear phones calibrates a mouse with minute, surgical gestures; over there a pensioner calmly conquers a puzzle world as if pruning roses. Shoulders bunch; jaws unclench; in the blue-lit hush they become who they are most when they play.
Cables drape and coil—sleek serpents trained into obedience—and labels tame them further with names and necessities. Mouse mats spread like landing strips; wrist supports curve kindly under hands that never quite rest. The chairs are indulgent, padded thrones; they hug spines and swallow sighs. Sticky rings on the tables—the inevitable inheritance of cola—glitter faintly in the LED underglow.
Meanwhile, at the back, the big screen presides like an altar. A bracket flickers beside it—a ladder of names waiting to be climbed—and the room’s attention tessellates towards the countdown. Three. Two. One. The surge is communal—adrenaline fizzing like sherbet—thumbs, clicks, breaths, an orchestra. Time dilates, then snaps; avatars fall and rise, fall and rise, until the screen blooms with results and chairs exhale at once.
Then the world remembers to move. Someone laughs too loudly; someone else rehearses a complaint about hitboxes and fate while ordering another espresso. Outside, the night is ordinary and damp; inside, the light holds steady, purposeful. It is not quite a cafe, not merely a room: a harbour for the quietly competitive, a stage for the shy. It promises nothing extravagant—just pixels, caffeine, companionship—and that feels necessary.
Option B:
Midnight. The hour when the city holds its breath; curtains hang like patient lungs; streetlamps coin puddles into tarnished gold; and a thousand screens bloom like deep-sea jellyfish, cool and insomniac. In the phosphorescent hush of routers and refrigerators, avatars fenced where faces should be. There, on that antiseptic battlefield of fonts and thumbnails, two names had learned each other’s edges the way duelists know a blade—by the sting more than the shine. Lark_42. IronQuill. Post, riposte; claim, counterclaim; refresh after refresh until the cables themselves seemed to hum with their quarrel.
Rowan—Lark in the merciless, scrolling theatre—flexed stiff fingers and watched a cursor wink like a metronome. His knuckles ached, eyes grainy with blue light. Notifications chimed, precise and glacial, as if ice cubes struck glass. He typed a sentence, deleted it, typed another and let it stand. He told himself it was only a game; only a forum; only pixels on a screen. Yet the word “only” had thinned to gauze, and opinion had hardened into armour he could feel pressing against his ribs.
It had started with three small things: a correction (too sharp), a joke (poorly timed), and a leaderboard Rowan had edged onto after a week of feverish practice. IronQuill’s reply was brisk, erudite, edged with a kind of ironised kindness that felt worse than a slap. Others arrived, bright as moths to an argument. The thread elongated, ivy around brickwork, clutching; then the heat took, subtext combusted, and smug little emojis fluttered down like confetti over a street fight. Rowan could have closed the tab. He didn’t.
At 01:07, a direct message arrived, precise as a paper cut. If you can defend it, do it where it counts. The Hex Café. Saturday, 10 a.m. Bring your arguments, not your keyboard. Under it, a location pin pulsed. He stared. The room clicked and ticked: radiator, clock, his own teeth. He tasted metal, or imagination. A breath later—why was it a breath later?—he typed: Fine. See you.
Dawn unspooled from ash to amber, and the screen became what it had always been: glass. Rowan packed in a jittering sequence—charger and spare charger; notebook; a hoodie that smelled faintly of last week’s rain; a pen he didn’t need but might. Zip; unzip. Check, check, re-check. He could feel the absurdity of it, this pilgrimage towards someone who might be dangerous or dull—or both. He could feel how ridiculous his own importance sounded, and yet, ridiculously, he went.
Outside, the morning air was a cold hand over a feverish brow. The bus sighed at every stop; strangers yawned, shouldered, scrolled. His reflection travelled with him, ghosted in the window, cursor-thin. Twice he opened the message thread to type an apology; twice he let the screen go dark again (as if darkness could absolve him).
The Hex Café crouched under railway arches where pigeons fretted and trains performed their iron rituals. Inside: the chiaroscuro of neon and shadow; the low, caffeinated hum; the smell of hot dust from old consoles stacked like relics. Rowan stood in the doorway, a ripple in the noise, and saw a red beanie at the far table, a hand tapping a pencil in precise, impatient staccato.
IronQuill looked up. Not iron; not quilled; human. Younger than he had guessed, older than he had hoped, eyes bright with something that could have been fury—or curiosity.
“Hello, Lark,” they said, the voice soft, almost courteous, the edge unmistakable.
And the argument, at last, inhaled.
- Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)
Option A:
The sign above the door hums in tired violet, its neon puddling on the rain-dark pavement. Inside, the light is not quite light but an underwater glow: rows of screens bloom in aquamarine squares, small electronic moons tethered to their owners. Fans whisper. The room breathes—warm at the edges, cool along the spine of aisles where cables coil like tame snakes. Dust lifts and turns in the monitor beams, a shaken scatter of tiny constellations. Chairs swivel, softly; the plastic gives off a faint, clean scent, tangled with strong coffee and the sweet-sharp tang of energy drinks. It is dim, and yet everything is seen.
At the nearest station a boy leans forward, shoulders curled as if shielding a fragile flame. His fingers flicker; the keyboard answers in staccato clicks—relentless, precise. On his screen an impossible city folds into itself; in his eyes, a runway of light glows. Beside him, a woman in a navy blazer murmurs into her headset, coaxing a team that exists only as gold names and small avatars. Orders ripple: “Hold the lane, rotate.” Laughter sparks, brief, then collapses back into concentration. The chorus rises and recedes, rises and recedes, until the rhythm lulls the room into its peculiar focus.
Beyond the rows, the counter has a pragmatic glamour. Glass fridges glow like aquariums; cans stack in metallic columns; a patient kettle ticks. The barista—in a hoodie scattered with pixel hearts—moves in quiet choreography: tamp, pour, steam; stir, serve. The bouquet here is odd but persuasive: espresso, instant noodles, citrus disinfectant, and the faint metallic breath of circuits. Posters peel and overlap on the far wall, a palimpsest of tournaments and midnight launches; someone has inked a silver crown over last winter’s champion. A bowl of mismatched dice waits for a group that might never quite gather.
Conversation is scattered constellations rather than one galaxy. Two students debate frame rates; a father introduces his daughter to the old arcade cabinet, its joystick polished to an oily shine. Not everyone plays. One boy watches, chin in hands, learning the slow mathematics of timing; an older woman reads, her page cut-glass by the blue of a stranger’s victory screen. Above, a projector throws a match onto a blank wall—avatars sprinting, maps unfurling—while real hands tighten, loosen, tighten on mice that glow with quiet pride. Time stretches. The outside world shrinks to wet coats and a line of umbrellas dripping into a tray. When the door opens again, the violet hum lifts as if pleased; the night breathes in, the room breathes out, and the games go on.
Option B:
Night. The time when houses quieten; routers hum; screens become the only windows that stay awake. My room was an aquarium of light, the pale-blue rectangle throwing waves across the ceiling while the fan whispered. My handle—Mara—pulsed in the lobby like a heartbeat; opposite it hovered NullKnight, clinical white, unblinking. Between us was no air, just bandwidth: fast, temperamental, charged. My fingers rested on the keys, muscles remembering trajectories and timings the way dancers remember steps. Outside, the cul-de-sac was velvety and still; in here, everything crackled.
We had been opponents for months, an accidental duet. Every tactic I learned, he countered; every counter he built, I unravelled. He clipped my worst miss and posted it with a caption; I replied with the rematch and a score that glowed. The chat swelled—emojis boiling over, strangers taking sides. It wasn’t just about winning; it was about who wrote our story. Under the latency and noise, something more prickled: pride, and the pricklier thing behind pride—fear.
Then he messaged me directly: IRL set? Saturday. The Vault, 4pm. Three letters—IRL—suddenly heavy as coins. My first instinct was to laugh; the second—unhelpfully—was to check bus times. I stared at his avatar, at the stylised helmet I had imagined a thousand different heads inside. What if he was dangerous? What if he was harmless? What if he was someone from school pretending to be mythic? I typed, deleted, retyped. Eventually: Fine. Bring your A-game. The words looked braver than I felt.
Saturday afternoon, the sky held itself like wet glass. I followed the map through streets I’d known since primary, which now felt new because they led to him. The city tasted metallic; traffic hissed. Outside The Vault—a basement café with a neon sign that trembled—I paused at the top step and watched my reflection blur in the window: the same hoodie, the same plait, a face pretending not to be anxious. My phone buzzed: Here?
Inside, cables coiled across carpets; monitors blinked in unison; the air smelled of coffee, sugar, electricity. Two boys argued about frame data like poetry. The owner looked up, nodded me towards the back. Another buzz: Turn around. I did. The helmet from his avatar was embroidered on a dark cap. He was taller than me but not tall; his eyes were brighter than a screen. We stood there in the narrow aisle, the world of pixels collapsing neatly into inches. NullKnight had a name, a voice, a pulse. So did I. The game was about to change.
- Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)
Option A:
The room is a cave of glass and glow. Rows of monitors float in the dark, square moons rinsing cheeks in electric blue. A thin hum—air-con, fans, neon—threads the air, steady, almost soothing. The smell is a collage: hot plastic, sweet energy drinks, toasted bread. Cables loop over counters like tame snakes; controllers rest, heavy, obedient. Outside, rain needles the window; in here the night starts early. Curtains hold it in. Keys chatter in bursts, then hush, then chatter again, a tide of clicking that rises and falls.
At the counter, the barista slides cans across; sugar and caffeine are the house rules. Meanwhile, a group claims the corner booth, shoulders pressed, laughter jumping higher than their scores. Their headsets sit like crowns—cheap plastic, but important. Near the door, a lone boy leans forward, motionless except for his eyes; each defeat draws his breath, each win lets it go. Staff move between them—quick, practised—untangling a lead, swapping a mouse, nodding at regulars by their gamer tags.
Posters wallpaper the walls, heroes frozen mid-stride, all colour and promise. Above the bar, a leaderboard flickers; names climb, names drop; pixels celebrate, then sulk. The furniture is honest: plastic chairs, scuffed; tables clean but ringed with pale circles. Mouse mats cling slightly to elbows; keyboards shine where thumbs have polished them smooth. Sound gathers in layers—click, click; the soft thud of a space bar; the brief whoop of a victory; a groan rolling into laughter. Time loosens its grip in here; minutes stretch, then snap; the outside world blurs behind condensation.
Yet it isn’t only escape. The cafe is a small, bright harbour for people who prefer numbers to names. Strangers trade tips; someone holds the door when a delivery arrives; a coat is rescued. Occasionally a face turns blank—tired, a bit lost—and the fluorescent light is unkind. Still, when the door opens and the wet night breathes in, nobody flinches; they glance, then fold back to their islands. The neon sign hums on, steady, a heartbeat that is oddly gentle. For a while longer, the games keep going; for a while, so do they.
Option B:
Night. The blue glare of my monitor flattened the room into outlines, as if the only living thing was the chat: a waterfall of emotes and jibes. What began as lazy teasing beneath a stream grew sharp. On the leaderboard he hovered one place above me—Maraud3r; relentless skill. We traded wins, then insults, then tactics stolen and re-stolen. Notifications needled the glass. Then a line that didn’t feel like text but a tug: “See you IRL?”
I typed back before sense could argue. “Saturday. Byte Bar. Seven.” It was bravado. Still, the rivalry had been a project for months; it gave shape to evenings that would otherwise dissolve. By Saturday, the thread sat at the top of my phone like a dare. I packed, unpacked, re-packed the same few things. My fingers—so decisive at a keyboard—faltered over a zip. The mirror showed a face bleached by screenlight. Calm down, I told it. It didn’t.
Outside, the city worked like a wet circuit board: streets gleaming, buses humming, pedestrians flickering in reflective jackets. On the Number 8, the windows sweated; my thoughts did too. I rehearsed how to be normal—shake hands, keep it friendly—yet every version ended in a blank screen. What if he laughed? What if he was nothing like his avatar?
Byte Bar glowed like a low-lit aquarium: blue strips under the counter, screens stacked in the corner, a hum almost like a purr. It smelled of warm circuits and cheap cola; ambition; nerves. He was there before me—red hoodie, headphones round his neck like a crown slightly askew. Taller than I expected. When he looked up it was like a cursor blinking: once, twice, and an expression loaded.
“You must be Kite,” he said. My handle sounded thin out loud. “And you’re…?” I offered a hand that hovered. He ignored it gently and smiled. “Hi, Jamie.”
My name. Not the one on-screen. The sound of it turned my stomach like a sudden drop. “We’ve got next on Station Three,” he added, nodding at the bracket. “Let’s make it clean.”
Above the bar, our names slid together on the schedule. The rivalry had stepped into the room. Somewhere, someone counted down: three… two… one.
- Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)
Option A:
The first thing I notice is the light: a cool, marine glow drifting from monitor to monitor, pooling on the matte black desks and climbing the faces bent towards it. Screens blink like small moons behind glass; keys shine as if polished by storms of fingertips. People sit hunched, like question marks, their chairs creaking softly as the game pulls them closer.
Sound stacks up in layers. Click, tap, click-click; a low hum of fans; a cough from someone who forgot to drink water. Headsets cradle their heads and microphones poke forward like small beaks. A sudden shout — "Left!" — and then laughter that spreads and fades into the regular noise again. The air seems to buzz, not harshly but steadily, like a patient engine.
At the counter the chalkboard lists the day’s events: Duo Tournament; Retro Night. The barista wears a pin shaped like a pixel heart. He steams milk; the smell of coffee wrestles with garlic butter and hot tomato. Cups leave damp rings beside glowing mice. Wires twist like vines and disappear into the backs of machines.
Two friends share a screen; one leans over and points, speaking too fast, the other bites a thumbnail. A girl with cat-ear headphones is very still, only her fingers move. At the end table an older player sits steady, eyes narrowed; the blue light makes his beard look cold. On the wall a bracket climbs in neon pen, names crossed out and written again.
Time bends in here. Outside it might be afternoon, but inside it’s always night; it is always that tide of colour and clicking. When the door opens a rectangle of daylight slices the room and dust turns to glitter. I stand there, blinking — the cafe remains, breathing, waiting for the next round.
Option B:
The screen glowed like a winter moon in my dark bedroom. Notifications blinked; messages climbed up the chat like ants. At the top, his handle sat again: RivenRook. Another sharp remark, another perfect score delivered with the casual cruelty only text can carry. I typed back, slow, feeling the old heat crawl up my neck.
For months, our rivalry had been routine. Matches at midnight, headphones clamped too tight, the tap-tap of keys like rain. We swapped victories and insults; I told myself it was only a game, yet I checked the leaderboard obsessively. Who was he? A teenager? A man with time to burn? Not knowing made it worse. When his avatar erased mine, his message followed like a shadow: 'Better luck.'
Then the announcement arrived: regional tournament, city centre; real brackets, real prizes. The draw put our names side by side. My phone buzzed at once: 'See you there.' I stared until the words blurred. Suddenly the blue light felt colder, and my room smaller. It was only a hall, I told myself—only people and screens.
The bus juddered through Saturday traffic. Outside, shop windows threw rectangles of light; inside, I counted stops as if that could slow time. The venue was a converted cinema with a new sign and old carpets. Machines hummed, cables coiled like snakes. The air smelt of warm plastic and pizza. Faces were painted by pixels. I found my station. The tag next to mine blinked; someone stood there, casting a narrow shadow.
He was taller than I expected, not a monster, just a person with steady eyes and a hoodie the exact colour of his avatar’s cloak. 'RivenRook,' he said, offering a hand. I knew that. I took it anyway. The match time slid towards us, soft and inevitable.
- Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)
Option A:
The door sighs as I push it, a smear of neon drips along the floor. Fluorescent strips bruise the ceiling; monitors glow like small moons, faces lit pale and serious. The air is warm, thick with steam from instant noodles and the sweet bite of energy drinks. Cables snake under the tables, a black river twisting round chair legs.
Here the sound is constant. Click-click, tap-tap, the soft thud of a mouse; fans humming like tiny turbines. Headsets hang like heavy crowns — when they lift them, they leave circles pressed on hair. Chairs squeak, a laugh rises then fades, and someone whispers to a teammate, only a voice.
At the counter, the barista wipes a cup and glances at the leaderboard glowing on the wall. The menu is simple: noodles, toasties, cans. Sugar-bright drinks crowd a glass fridge. Teenagers in hoodies, a man with a loosened tie, a girl with purple hair — they all lean forward, eyes fixed. Some talk fast, others don't. At the back there is a small tournament, a tight ring of bodies; shoulders touch and someone cheers, then another, louder.
Posters peel at the corners; the cafe shows it's age, but it keeps a clean pride. A strip of blue light trembles, making the room feel underwater. Time bends here, minutes stretch and then snap back. Outside, dusk thins on the street; inside, the night is already awake. Over and over, the clicks, the breaths, the bright glow, and the wait for the next win.
Option B:
At 1:13 a.m., the screen glowed a cold blue; the cursor blinked like a small heartbeat. Another notification trilled, sharp as cutlery. NightFox had replied. We weren’t friends—never were. On the BattleChess leaderboard there were twenty names; only two mattered. Them and me. For weeks we traded moves and mockery. Their messages were sleek, calculated; mine were stubborn, a bit reckless. The chat rolled like rain; every taunt tapped my ribs. We hit send like it was a dare.
That morning, in assembly, my phone buzzed against my thigh: Face me for real. Saturday. The arcade. I should’ve blocked him, I should of laughed it off; instead I typed, Fine. My thumb shook, the bell rang and the day moved like a slow train. It was stupid, maybe dangerous, but the rivalry had grown roots. At lunch my friend told me to be careful; I said I would, though my voice was small.
Saturday came damp and grey. The arcade smelt of popcorn and dust; neon letters hummed. Without the armour of avatars, everything felt heavier, more noisey. What if NightFox was a grown man? What if they didn’t come at all? Only one way to know: meet.
The door groaned; daylight sliced the dark floor. A figure in a fox-hoodie paused, scanning. Not a monster—just a teenager, pale as screen-light, hands jammed in pockets. Our eyes met and bounced away.
“You took your time,” he said.
“You’re late,” I said back, though I wasn’t brave enough to smile.
The game had escaped the screen. Now it was real.
- Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)
Option A:
Blue monitors glow in the dim cafe, painting faces with cold light. Cables crawl across the floor like lazy snakes, and the fans thrum in the cases. The smell is a mix of hot pizza and energy drinks; it hangs low, heavy but kind of welcoming. Keys chatter—tap, tap, tap—and mice scrape in quick circles. On the wall, neon signs blink on and off, on and off, like tired eyes that refuse to sleep.
Inside, players lean forward, heads bowed under big headphones. Their eyes are bright, their hands tight on controllers, and you can feel the concentration. A boy in a hoodie whispers strategy to his friend; a girl at the end smiles when the scoreboard changes. People talk quietly, the game shouts louder. The room is small; the feeling is big. There is a rhythm: clicking, breathing, cheering. Again and again, they start, they lose, they win.
At the counter, the barista wipes mugs and watches a match stream on a tablet. At the back, a shelf holds spare parts—mouse mats, wires, a jar of screws—waiting. Time seems to stretch like chewing gum. Outside is the dark street, but inside it feels like a little spaceship.
Option B:
Blue light from my laptop pooled across my desk like a small moon. My room was quiet except for the click, click, click of keys and the occasional ping of a notification. On-screen my avatar flashed; across the chat, ShadowFox waited behind an anonymous fox mask. We had fought over high scores for weeks—snarky comments and late-night rematches. How did it get this far?
Last night, after another narrow win, they typed: meet me then? The words sat in the chat like a dare. I should've laughed it off, but my pride wouldn't let me. Only one problem: we lived in the same town. So I said yes. We chose the arcade by the station—Saturday; noon. Real life—I mean, face to face.
This morning the sky was grey, and the air bit at my fingers. I waited outside the arcade, neon buzzing, phone hot in my palm. Each bus that stopped made my stomach twist. Me and Jay had joked about what ShadowFox would look like: a giant, a troll, maybe a normal kid. Then a message pinged: I'm here. I looked up as the doors folded open, and a figure stepped out, hood up, eyes bright and too familiar.
- Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)
Option A:
The room is dark. Screens glow blue and green like tiny moons. Cables crawl on the floor like snakes. It is cool, the air hums. I walk slow, my shoes stick a little.
Chairs roll, feet scrape, someone laughs too loud and then it stops. The keyboards go click click click, like rain on a tin roof, the mouse makes tap tap tap. Headsets like helmets hide faces.
Screens stare, loading bars crawl.
There is a smell of chips and fizzy drink, sweet and salty. Sticky cups on the table, a torn poster on the wall. The owner watches from the counter, he has a tired smile, he says hello but I can’t hear, the game is loud.
I sit in a booth. My hands shake a bit. The map opens and it is bright, it pulls me in, the cafe feels far away. I think I will stay here for a while.
Option B:
It started with a game. My phone lit up every night and the chat pinged like a small alarm. They called themself Wolf99. I was Pix. We raced on the board, we spammed emotes, we said easy win but it wasnt.
At first it was funny. Then the words got sharp, I stayed up late even on school nights and my eyes burn. He said meet me then if your tough. I typed back, I will. My heart went tap tap.
We pick the arcade by the bus station. Saturday. I told no one. The day came and goes slow, clouds sit low and grey. I put on my hoodie and I walk. My stomach is knots.
The lights blink, sticky floor. He was there with the same avatar on his cap - a wolf. He looked smaller than the screen, but his eyes didnt. He smiled. It wasnt friendly.
- Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)
Option A:
The room is dark and the screens are bright. Rows of PCs glow blue, wires crawl on the floor. The chairs spin a little, squeak. I hear clicking, clicking and more clicking. People lean in with headsets on, faces look pale. It smell like chips and energy drinks, sweet and salty and metal. The air is warm, the fan buzz, the game music goes boom and beep. I stare at a poster with a dragon, it looks real but not real. My hands feel sticky on the mouse. Outside it might be raining I think, someone laughs loud and a cup falls.
Option B:
Night. The screen is blue. I tap and click. DarkWolf99 types at me again, stop noob, you cant win! I type back fast and my hands shake, my heart is like a drum. We fight in the game, we fight in words, I dont even know him and it feels big even if it is small. A siren goes by. Next day I am at the bus stop. A boy in a black hoodie stands there and I see the same name on his phone case, DarkWolf. He looks up and says my user out loud. I freeze, its not just online now.