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 During his toilsome youth, the pale philosopher made discoveries in what?: the elemental powers of Nature – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the description, which natural processes had the pale philosopher explained?: The fires of volcanoes and why fountains gush from the earth – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which pair best describes the areas of nature that Aylmer had investigated?: the upper atmosphere and the deepest mines – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the narrator, which group of natural phenomena had Aylmer examined and explained?: Atmospheric heights, subterranean depths, the sustaining of volcanic fires, and why fountains differ in purity and medicinal qualities – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 66 to 79 of the source:

66 virtues, from the dark bosom of the earth. Here, too, at an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the human frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which Nature assimilates all her precious influences from earth and air, and from the spiritual world, to create and foster man, her masterpiece. The latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside in unwilling

71 recognition of the truth—against which all seekers sooner or later stumble—that our great creative Mother, while she amuses us with apparently working in the broadest sunshine, is yet severely careful to keep her own secrets, and, in spite of her pretended openness, shows us nothing but results. She permits us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to mend, and, like a

76 jealous patentee, on no account to make. Now, however, Aylmer resumed these half-forgotten investigations; not, of course, with such hopes or wishes as first suggested them; but because they involved much physiological truth and lay in the path of his proposed scheme for the treatment of Georgiana.

How does the writer use language here to present the idea that Nature keeps her secrets? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse the extended personification and controlling metaphors that construct Nature as a deceptive gatekeeper: she is "our great creative Mother" who, despite "apparently working in the broadest sunshine," is "severely careful to keep her own secrets," and, "like a jealous patentee," "shows us nothing but results," so the ironic juxtaposition presents a façade of openness masking concealed processes. It would also probe verb choices and patterned syntax—Nature "assimilates" hidden forces "from the dark bosom of the earth," while she only "permits us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to mend, and, like a jealous patentee, on no account to make"—a restrictive tricolon that escalates prohibition and emphasises her monopoly over creation.

The writer personifies and elevates Nature as “our great creative Mother,” an extended metaphor that both nurtures and withholds. Images of “the dark bosom of the earth” and of her power to “create and foster man, her masterpiece” convey intimacy and authority, yet “dark” connotes concealment and “masterpiece” a finished product we may admire but not reproduce. The paradox that she “amuses us with apparently working in the broadest sunshine” while “severely” keeping “her own secrets” casts Nature as a magician who “shows us nothing but results”; the adverb “apparently” and the phrase “pretended openness” underline deliberate surface-show, while the crucial “very process” remains hidden.

Furthermore, the simile “like a jealous patentee” draws on a legal lexical field to characterise protective exclusivity. “Patentee” implies ownership of a method, and “jealous” in its vigilant sense suggests guarded secrecy. The tricolon “permits us… to mar, but seldom to mend, and… on no account to make” blends restrictive modality with alliteration of m to intensify limits: harm is easy, repair rare, creation forbidden. Crucially, the verb “permits” frames Nature as the licensing authority, reinforcing that access to her “process” is granted only on her terms.

Moreover, Hawthorne’s syntax reinforces inevitability: the parenthetical aside “—against which all seekers sooner or later stumble—” universalises failure, while “stumble” implies blind collision with an unseen barrier. Even the sibilance in “severely… secrets” and the long sentence that ends with “nothing but results” mimic a reveal of outcomes alone, never the workings, presenting Nature as deliberately guarding her mysteries.

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 typically identifies personification and metaphor, explaining that Nature is presented as our great creative Mother yet like a jealous patentee, which, together with phrases such as keep her own secrets and shows us nothing but results, suggests she withholds knowledge and only allows humans to mar, but seldom to mend. It might also comment on sentence form and irony, noting the dash aside —against which all seekers sooner or later stumble— and apparently working in the broadest sunshine, which emphasise deceptive openness and the inevitability of failure.

The writer personifies Nature as “our great creative Mother” with a “dark bosom of the earth”. This maternal metaphor suggests she nurtures life but also hides it close to her chest, implying secrecy. The adverb “apparently” in “working in the broadest sunshine” shows her display is deceptive; she “shows us nothing but results”. So the true processes are concealed from us.

Furthermore, the simile “like a jealous patentee” presents Nature as a legal owner who guards her invention. The adjective “jealous” and the phrase “on no account to make” emphasise prohibition: humans may observe outcomes, but are forbidden to reproduce the hidden method. This reinforces the idea that she keeps her secrets under strict control.

Additionally, the antithesis “permits us... to mar, but seldom to mend” uses parallelism to stress our limits. The parenthesis in “truth—against which all seekers sooner or later stumble—” suggests inevitable failure for investigators. The verb “fathom” and the triadic list “from earth and air, and from the spiritual world” create a semantic field of depth and mystery, implying Nature’s workings are vast and unreachable. Overall, the complex sentences build a sense that enquiry meets a barrier of secrecy.

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 personification, calling Nature our great creative Mother who keeps her own secrets, and a simile like a jealous patentee to show she protects her work so humans can only mar, but seldom to mend. The phrase apparently working in the broadest sunshine contrasts with shows us nothing but results, suggesting her openness is only superficial and the real processes stay hidden.

The writer personifies Nature as “our great creative Mother” who “keeps her own secrets.” This shows Nature like a parent in control, hiding the process and only letting people see the surface. It suggests humans cannot truly “fathom” how she works. Furthermore, the simile “like a jealous patentee” presents Nature as protective of her inventions. A patent owner would not let others copy, so the reader sees that Nature blocks access to her methods.

Moreover, the phrase “shows us nothing but results” stresses that we only see the outcomes, not the making. Additionally, the list of verbs, “permits us… to mar, but seldom to mend… on no account to make,” creates a contrast. The negatives “seldom” and “on no account” emphasise the limits on human action. Overall, these techniques present the idea that Nature is secretive and will not share her inner workings.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer personifies Nature as "our great creative Mother" who "keeps her own secrets", showing she hides how things work so we see "nothing but results". He also uses the simile "like a jealous patentee" and the phrase "permits us... to mar, but seldom to mend" to make Nature seem strict and controlling.

The writer uses personification to present Nature as secret. Calling her "our great creative Mother" who "keeps her own secrets" makes Nature seem like a person who hides things. Furthermore, the simile "like a jealous patentee" suggests she is protective and won't let people "make" anything. Moreover, the metaphor "dark bosom of the earth" shows hidden depths. Additionally, the phrase "shows us nothing but results" means we only see the outside. The words "permits" and "seldom" show control, so Nature does not share. Therefore, the writer presents Nature as secret and controlling.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Personification/metaphor presents Nature as a willful guardian who chooses what to reveal and withhold (our great creative Mother).
• Concessive structure contrasts appearance and reality, implying deceptive transparency (apparently working in the broadest sunshine).
• Possessive phrasing frames concealment as her rightful property, stressing control of knowledge (keep her own secrets).
• Lexis of deception suggests false transparency and deliberate masking of methods (pretended openness).
• Outcome-over-process phrasing implies the mechanism is hidden and only end products are visible (shows us nothing but results).
• Antithesis and parallelism limit human agency to damage, not improvement, highlighting guarded boundaries (seldom to mend).
• Absolute prohibition intensifies the boundary around creation, implying inviolate secrets (on no account to make).
• Simile likens Nature to a rights-holder, emphasising jealous protection of proprietary processes (like a jealous patentee).
• Parenthetical aside universalises the barrier, implying all inquiry meets the same concealed limit (all seekers sooner or later stumble).
• Depth imagery evokes hidden, unreachable interiors, reinforcing the sense of impenetrable mystery (dark bosom of the earth).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: Level 4 responses perceptively trace the structural arc from the narrator’s ominous generalisation into an embedded dream, where the move from abstraction to visceral action ("deeper went the knife" ... "caught hold of Georgiana’s heart") intensifies menace; a pivot to charged dialogue ("take my wretched life!") raises the stakes, then a shift to procedural planning ("seclude themselves", "laboratory") ironically deepens dread, and the closing exposition capped by Nature’s warning ("She permits us... to mar, but seldom to mend") foreshadows catastrophic consequence. They also notice structural patterning, with the recurring focus on the "crimson hand" (e.g., the kiss on the "right cheek—not that...") threading menace through changes in mood, tone, and setting.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create menace is by moving from aphorism to analepsis. The opening generalisation about “Sleep” letting “spectres… break forth” blurs dream and waking, priming unease. The narrative then zooms into Aylmer’s remembered dream, escalating clause by clause: “deeper went the knife, deeper sank the hand,” until a “tiny grasp” clutches Georgiana’s “heart.” This incremental repetition mimics descent and violation, while the narrator’s intrusion—“Truth… speaks with uncompromising directness”—recodes the dream as prophecy, making the threat feel inescapable.

In addition, a shift into dialogue quickens pace and raises stakes. Georgiana’s modal escalation—“at whatever risk… Either remove… or take my wretched life”—turns anxiety into ultimatum, as Aylmer’s “hastily” and “rapturously” interruptions create a coercive rhythm. A proleptic echo when she fears the mark may “take refuge in my heart” mirrors the dream-image, binding nightmare to intent. The symbolic beat—he kisses the “right cheek, not” the marked one—crystallises his revulsion, and the temporal nudge, “The next day,” drives plot towards danger.

A further structural device is the relocation and retrospective catalogue in the laboratory. Seclusion—“seclude themselves”—shifts setting to confinement, while the cumulative list of past feats (volcanoes, “fountains,” the “human frame”) inflates Aylmer’s power ominously. The narrator’s aphorisms—“We may mar, but seldom mend” and Nature as a “jealous patentee”—operate as foreshadowing and dramatic irony, undercutting hubris. The lexical motif “deeper” returns—he goes “deeper… into the heart of science”—a chilling echo of the earlier heart, menace intensifying from image to resolution to arena.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how menace builds across the extract: from the ominous recall of a dream ("Aylmer now remembered his dream", "deeper went the knife... caught hold of Georgiana’s heart"), to escalating dialogue that raises the stakes ("Either remove this dreadful hand, or take my wretched life!") and the turning point ("It is resolved, then"), ending in isolation ("seclude themselves" in the "laboratory") and a cautionary narrator’s comment ("She permits us... to mar, but seldom to mend"). It would link these structural shifts to impact, explaining how foreshadowing and confinement create a claustrophobic, threatening mood.

One way the writer structures menace is by opening with a remembered dream: “Aylmer now remembered his dream.” This flashback also acts as foreshadowing, as “deeper went the knife… caught hold of Georgiana’s heart” plants the threat. The clause “When the dream had shaped itself” slows the pace, and the authorial comment “Truth often finds...” reframes the dream as truth, making the menace feel inescapable.

In addition, the focus shifts to extended dialogue, which accelerates the pace and raises the stakes. Georgiana’s ultimatum—“Either remove this dreadful hand, or take my wretched life!”—sharpens danger, and “spare me not… take refuge in my heart” echoes the dream, forming a cyclical motif. This is juxtaposed with Aylmer’s rapturous hubris—“corrected what Nature left imperfect”—so the tone tilts from tenderness to fanatic resolve.

A further structural feature is the temporal shift—“The next day”—and relocation to the laboratory. The choice “to seclude themselves” narrows the setting into claustrophobia, while the digression on Aylmer’s past successes slows the pace, prolonging suspense. The authorial intrusion that Nature “permits us… to mar, but seldom to mend” creates dramatic irony, and the closing “proposed scheme” withholds outcomes, keeping menace simmering across the extract.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might identify that menace builds through the structure: it starts with a violent dream—“deeper went the knife...caught hold of Georgiana’s heart”—moves to a firm decision “It is resolved,” and then shifts setting to the isolated “laboratory” where they will “seclude themselves,” making the threat feel more real and inescapable.

One way the writer structures menace is by opening with a nightmare then shifting to waking. At the start, the focus is on Aylmer’s dream: “deeper went the knife… caught hold of Georgiana’s heart.” Moving into real life and his “guilty feeling” warns us something bad will happen.

In addition, the middle uses dialogue to build threat. The focus moves to their speech, where Georgiana says “whatever risk” and “take my wretched life.” This change of tone and faster pace makes the menace increase, as Aylmer insists, “doubt not my power.”

A further structural feature is the shift in setting and time. The temporal reference “The next day” and the seclusion in the “laboratory” change the focus to a closed place and Aylmer’s past. This ending section makes it seem certain: “She permits us… to mar”, so the danger feels closer.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds menace by starting with a frightening dream (“deeper went the knife”) and then moving to a firm decision (“It is resolved”) to “seclude themselves” in the “laboratory”, so it goes from thought to action. The mood shifts from “guilty feeling” to confident “doubt not my power”, making the danger feel stronger.

One way the writer builds menace is by beginning with Aylmer’s remembered dream. Opening with “the deeper went the knife” makes it feel frightening and sets a threatening mood.

In addition, the focus moves to their dialogue in the middle, which increases danger as they decide. The time marker “The next day” pushes the action closer, making the operation feel unavoidable.

A further structural feature is a change in setting at the end to the laboratory. This shift in focus and long description about science makes the plan seem overpowering, so menace grows.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Framed, generalised opening shifts from abstract reflection on Sleep to the real world, blurring boundaries to seed unease (break forth, affrighting this actual life).
• Swift transition into Aylmer’s recalled dream narrows focus from universal to personal, concentrating the threat (Aylmer now remembered his dream).
• Incremental repetition in the dream structures rising danger as the action intensifies (deeper went the knife).
• The dream’s culmination at the heart crystallises lethal stakes and Aylmer’s ruthlessness, sharpening foreboding (caught hold of Georgiana’s heart).
• Return to waking with confessed guilt and a narratorial maxim bridges dream and reality, exposing obsessive control (tyrannizing influence).
• Introduction of dialogue and Georgiana’s solemn, probing questions dwell on risk and depth, prolonging dread (goes as deep as life).
• Aylmer’s interruption and urgency shift power and pace toward action, tightening menace through decisive assertion (hastily interrupted).
• Georgiana’s ultimatum frames a stark binary, escalating the stakes to life-or-death threat (Either remove this dreadful hand).
• Aylmer’s expansive monologue crescendos into hubristic intent to amend Nature, cueing ominous consequence (what Nature left imperfect).
• Shift to secluded laboratory and a warning about human limits compress space and foreshadow harm (to mar, but seldom to mend).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, where Aylmer gets excited about removing the birthmark, his reaction might seem loving. The writer suggests that he is actually more interested in the glory of the scientific challenge than his wife's safety.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Aylmer's excitement about removing the birthmark
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray Aylmer's scientific ambition
• 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 perceptively argue that the writer undercuts Aylmer’s seeming tenderness—he tenderly kissed her cheek—her right cheek—not that which bore the impress of the crimson hand—by foregrounding his self-glorifying ambition in the exultant diction and mythic allusion of my triumph, corrected what Nature left imperfect, and Even Pygmalion... felt not greater ecstasy, showing he prizes the challenge’s glory over Georgiana’s safety. It would further analyse how the narrator’s cautionary aside She permits us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to mend and the plan for intense thought and constant watchfulness in rooms famed for the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe position the writer’s viewpoint against Aylmer’s hubris.

I largely agree with the statement. While Aylmer’s language is outwardly affectionate, the writer steadily reveals an ego driven by scientific glory that eclipses Georgiana’s safety. Structurally, Hawthorne places Georgiana’s solemn caution first—she imagines “cureless deformity,” a “stain [that] goes as deep as life,” and the “firm gripe” of the “crimson hand”—to foreground real risk. Aylmer’s response, however, “hastily interrupted,” signals impatience; his confident, clinical assertion of the “perfect practicability” of removal, with its technical register and modal certainty, prioritises feasibility over human cost, steering the reader to distrust the tenderness that frames it.

The affectionate diction—“Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife”—sounds loving, yet Hawthorne undercuts it through the adverb “rapturously,” which implies intoxication with his own vision. He swiftly pivots to self-aggrandisement: “doubt not my power,” “I feel myself fully competent,” and finally “my triumph.” The repeated first-person pronouns and superlatives create a triumphalist lexis that centres his ego. His desire to have “corrected what Nature left imperfect” personifies Nature as a rival and exposes hubris. The classical allusion to “Pygmalion,” whose “ecstasy” comes from animating his own creation, reframes Georgiana not as a cherished wife but as the medium through which Aylmer might achieve creator-like exaltation. Even his claim that she has “led [him] deeper… into the heart of science” instrumentalises her: she becomes a pathway to knowledge rather than a person to protect.

Hawthorne then uses action and setting to intensify this critique. Aylmer “tenderly kissed her cheek—her right cheek,” a symbolic refusal of the marked side that betrays conditional love. The narrative then pivots to the laboratory plan. The clinical collocations—“proposed operation,” “intense thought,” “constant watchfulness”—frame the venture as an experiment. A paratactic catalogue of his past feats—work that “roused the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe”—magnifies his prestige, so the birthmark’s removal reads as his next great conquest. The intrusive narrator’s aphorisms about Mother Nature—“permits us… to mar, but seldom to mend,” a “jealous patentee”—function as an ironic chorus, warning the reader that Aylmer’s ambition trespasses on hidden laws.

Finally, the phrase “lay in the path of his proposed scheme for the treatment of Georgiana” subordinates her to the scheme rather than the scheme to her. Overall, despite gestures of care and promises of “perfect repose,” Hawthorne’s methods—hubristic allusion, ego-centred pronouns, symbolic action, and cautionary narrator—strongly suggest Aylmer pursues the glory of mastery over Nature more than the safety of his wife.

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, noting that Aylmer’s apparent affection in "Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife" and "tenderly kissed her cheek—her right cheek" is undercut by ambition-charged language. It would cite "rapturously", the boast "what will be my triumph" with the Pygmalion allusion ("Even Pygmalion...") and the plan to "seclude themselves" in his "laboratory" for "intense thought and constant watchfulness", showing he prioritises scientific glory over Georgiana’s safety.

I mostly agree with the statement. Although Aylmer’s language sometimes appears tender, Hawthorne presents him as driven more by ambition and the promise of triumph than by concern for Georgiana’s safety. When Georgiana soberly lists the “cost” and the fear of “cureless deformity,” Aylmer “hastily interrupted,” asserting the “perfect practicability” of the operation. This verb and adverb show impatience and certainty, suggesting he prioritises the challenge over the risks she raises. His affectionate address—“Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife”—and the plan that she should enjoy “perfect repose” could seem loving, but they sit alongside an overriding desire to perfect her.

The writer’s diction consistently reveals that desire. Aylmer promises to render her cheek “faultless,” then imagines “my triumph” in “correct[ing] what Nature left imperfect.” The abstract noun “triumph” and the personification of Nature position him as a rival to creation itself. The classical allusion to “Pygmalion” intensifies this, implying he treats Georgiana like an artwork to be improved, not a person to protect; words like “rapturously” and “ecstasy” signal intoxication with the experiment. Even his “tender” kiss is symbolic: he kisses “her right cheek—not that which bore” the mark, hinting he cannot accept imperfection. Structurally, the narrative then shifts from domestic dialogue to an extended account of his laboratory and former “discoveries” that won “the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe.” This foregrounds reputation and public glory. The clinical phrasing of his plan—“intense thought and constant watchfulness”—frames Georgiana as the subject of a procedure.

The narrator’s aside personifies Nature as a “jealous patentee” who lets us “mar, but seldom to mend,” a warning Aylmer ignores when he “resumed these half-forgotten investigations” because they “lay in the path” of his “proposed scheme.” The noun “scheme” reinforces calculation. Overall, while there are gestures of love, the writer chiefly presents Aylmer as enthralled by the glory of the scientific challenge rather than by his wife’s safety.

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 that Aylmer is driven by glory, picking simple evidence like "rapturously," "what will be my triumph," and "Even Pygmalion" to say the writer shows his pride through word choice and allusion. It may also note he seems loving with "tenderly kissed her cheek—her right cheek," but still point to the plan needing "intense thought and constant watchfulness" as basic proof of his scientific focus over her safety.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first Aylmer’s excitement could be read as love. He calls her “Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife” and kisses her “tenderly.” The adverb “rapturously” shows strong feeling. However, the writer undercuts this: he kisses “her right cheek—not that which bore the impress of the crimson hand.” This detail suggests he cannot accept her as she is, so the love seems conditional.

As he speaks, Aylmer sounds more like a boastful scientist. He “hastily interrupted” her fear of “cureless deformity” and insists on the “perfect practicability” of the operation. His exclamations and “doubt not my power” show confidence. Most tellingly, he imagines “what will be my triumph” and compares himself to “Pygmalion.” This allusion makes it seem he wants the creator’s glory more than he values Georgiana’s safety.

The structure then moves into his laboratory, with a plan for “intense thought and constant watchfulness.” The list of past achievements, praise from “learned societies,” and grand imagery of “highest cloud region” build awe around science, not comfort. But the personification of Nature as a “jealous patentee” who lets us “mar, but seldom to mend” warns of danger. Aylmer “resumed” studies because they “lay in the path” of his scheme, not for her wellbeing.

Overall, I mostly agree: despite tender words, the writer presents Aylmer as driven by ambition and “triumph,” rather than genuine care for his wife’s safety.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a typical response briefly agrees that the writer shows Aylmer more excited by glory than safety, pointing to simple phrases like "what will be my triumph" and "Even Pygmalion... felt not greater ecstasy," while only noting the seemingly loving moment "tenderly kissed her cheek."

I mostly agree with the statement. At first Aylmer seems loving, calling Georgiana “Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife,” but the writer shows he is really excited by the experiment. The word “rapturously” and the verb “interrupted…hastily” suggest eagerness about science rather than calm care for her fears. His word choice, like “doubt not my power” and “perfect practicability,” sounds proud and focused on success.

The simile “Even Pygmalion… felt not greater ecstasy than mine” shows he compares himself to a great maker, which makes it seem like he wants glory. He even says “my triumph,” which puts himself first. A small detail that seems unloving is when he “tenderly kissed her cheek—her right cheek—not that which bore” the mark. This suggests the birthmark still bothers him and he is not thinking about her safety.

Later, the plan to move into his laboratory for “intense thought and constant watchfulness” makes it feel like a big scientific project. The long description of his past discoveries (volcanoes, fountains, “the human frame”) shows his ambition. He wants to “correct what Nature left imperfect,” which sounds risky. Overall, I agree that the writer presents Aylmer as more interested in the challenge than in protecting his wife.

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:

• Ambitious diction of victory signals self-glory eclipsing care for Georgiana; his goal reads as celebration of himself (my triumph).
• Mythological allusion elevates the experiment into art/creation, implying pride in making perfection over safeguarding a person (Pygmalion).
• Hubristic challenge to Nature presents the operation as correcting creation, supporting the view he seeks mastery, not safety (Nature left imperfect).
• Selective affection detail undercuts the mask of tenderness, implying disgust persists and drives the project more than love (her right cheek).
• Setting and plan foreground procedural control over comfort, suggesting he prioritises experimental conditions above her wellbeing (seclude themselves).
• Prestige motif hints at external acclaim as a driver, aligning his aim with reputation rather than risk management (learned societies in Europe).
• Overconfident modality minimises danger and centres his capability, reinforcing disregard of potential harm to her (fully competent).
• Acknowledged limits of science are brushed aside, implying wilful risk-taking to beat Nature rather than protect Georgiana (seldom to mend).
• Self-aggrandising creation fantasy centres his genius and thrill of making, not the wife's welfare (create a being).
• Tone contrast invites scepticism: his rapture jars against her desperation, supporting strong agreement with the statement (ecstasy).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

An online culture site is inviting creative writing that explores city life and technology.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a city transport control room from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a city brought to a halt by a failed app.

(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 room hums like a thinking machine; a domesticated storm penned in by glass and cable. Outside, night sprawls untroubled; inside, light is perpetual, a cool, clinical dawn that never arrives. Wall-to-wall screens pour a pale aurora over lacquered consoles, over the neat filigree of keys, over the braided umbilicals of black wire. It smells faintly of coffee turned to tar, of warm plastic, of that dry, metallic tang that belongs to servers and static. The city speaks here in pixels: lanes become lattices; timetables become heartbeat; a chorus of beeps, pips and clicks translates chaos into cadence.

Across the main wall, the network unfurls like a luminous anatomy. Arterial roads thicken; capillary streets taper; trains race as green segments across a night-blue cartography. CCTV mosaics tessellate into restless windows—rain smearing, headlights flaring, an empty concourse blinking under timed neon. Numbers march in stern columns: headways, dwell times, expected delays. A cursor drifts; a window blooms; minor crises unspool from terse abbreviations. Telemetry flickers. Someone zooms, then zooms again, chasing a tremor to its source.

The operators lean into the light, faces glazed with noctilucent data. Ergonomic chairs sigh when they shift; headsets cradle their temples; hands hover like patient birds above keys. Their voices are soft, deliberate, slightly sepulchral at this hour. “Control to Seven-Two, hold at Aldwych; priority traffic on Strand,” one says, the syllables clipped but kind. Another murmurs a string of codes that would sound alien to the uninitiated (and a little grandiose to anyone else). A pale mug leaves a ring on a neat logbook; a wilting fern keeps its own watch beside a fan. They are like pilots—yes, that old comparison—but the craft here never moves; instead, everything else does.

An alarm needles the air; a red triangle blooms, insistent. For a second the entire room tilts toward it—attention leans, breaths gather. A signal has failed northbound; a train idles where it should not; a line of buses stalls like beads on a tangled string. Commands go out with calm velocity: reroute here; hold there; initiate contingency C; inform stations; pause announcements until phrasing is revised. On the map, colours bruise and then lighten; the clot loosens, almost imperceptibly at first, then with a visible relief. The room does not cheer. It watches. It adjusts. It tries again. In and out, in and out, in and out—the city breathes because they keep count.

Meanwhile, dawn begins as an idea rather than a colour, a thinning at the edges of the blinds. Outside, cleaners rinse pavements and taxis yawn steam; cyclists uncoil from doorways; somewhere, a gull laughs at brick and fog. In here, the light does not change; the vigilance does. This is a lighthouse for motion—its beam is data, its foghorn a quiet ping that no one hears but those who must. It is not beautiful, exactly; it is exacting. And when the city wakes and surges, it will not say thank you. It will move, which is better.

Option B:

Monday. The choreography of a working week; escalators unfurling commuters, kettles chattering behind blinds, buses inhaling and exhaling lines of people. CitySync threaded the movements—payments, passes, timetables, doors—so tightly together that nobody had to think about them; the city functioned like a well-tuned instrument, obedient to a quiet metronome.

At 8:03, the thread snapped.

Screens faltered mid-blink. Turnstiles clenched and refused to rotate. A thousand tiny chimes—those gratifying, forgettable beeps—were replaced by a single, implacable message: Try again. The progress wheel rotated with a kind of polite indifference, as if it might complete its circle when it felt ready, as if urgency were a superstition.

As her kettle clicked off, Mara’s phone began to tremble against the counter: one alert, then ten, then a cascade that made her palm buzz. Junior Support Engineer, her badge said (yesterday it had felt like a promotion; now it felt like a dare). She thumbed the app—not the public app, the internal one—to check the incident log. Sign in through CitySync, it requested, cheerful as ever. She tried. Locked out. Of course. The key to the lock had decided to become a lock itself.

Outside, the city realised—very slowly, and all at once—that it could not move. A bus drew up and crouched obediently; the doors stayed shut, glass reflecting a line of hats and hopeful faces. A cyclist hovered at a docking bay, tapping his phone against the post like a woodpecker at an iron tree. In the concourse, ticket gates stared back, their small screens wearing expressions of faint offence. The morning air was cold, bright, and newly brittle; horn-calls, usually background noise, became a call-and-response of impatience. Somewhere, a siren started and then faded, as if embarrassed to be dramatic.

Mara pulled on trainers and ran. Habit made her reach for her travel card, although habit was the thing that had just betrayed everyone. At the bottom of her building, the revolving door didn’t. A security guard stood with both hands raised—not in surrender, exactly, but in the international gesture for I am powerless to help. “It’s down?” someone asked. “Everything is,” the guard said, almost tenderly. The lobby smelled of coffee and static.

Meanwhile, other gears stuck: lifts stranding people between floors; scooters lined up like sleeping insects; tills blinking into stupor; deliveries queued on pavements, box after box with nowhere to go. A child, baffled, tried to scan a banana at a self-checkout that would not recognise bananas. Cash, which the city had quietly unlearned like an out-of-date verb, returned in crumpled notes and apologetic coins—only to be refused by machines that didn’t know how to remember.

In the absence of its app, the city sounded different. The usual tide of messages, taps, confirmations, evaporated; a hush expanded between footsteps. Without the metronome, people hesitated. They looked at each other. They spoke. “Do you need a hand?” “Shall we walk?” The pavements, previously tributaries, became rivers.

Mara checked the incident mail again—three words glared up at her, brutal in their simplicity: Authentication Service Unavailable. One line of code, one thin seam, and everything lay open, or closed. She felt a foolish urge to apologise to every stranger within sight, as if the failure were her fault, as if she had personally unplugged the city.

It wasn’t as simple as breath, she told herself, though the metaphor kept returning—unhelpful, persistent, true enough to be cliché. The city hadn’t suffocated; it had paused mid-inhale. And in that pause, with doors stubborn and screens opaque, Mara stepped off the kerb and joined the walking line, her phone hot in her palm, her mind already rummaging for a fix that would, she hoped, restart the heart she hadn’t intended to stop.

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

Option A:

Midnight presses its face to the glass, smearing the city into a dark sheen. Inside, light blooms from a hundred rectangles, a cool, electronic daylight that banishes sleep but not the weariness. The room is square and quiet at first glance; then, when you listen, it hums—air units whispering, server fans breathing, the soft tick of a wall clock that refuses to hurry. Coffee fumes drift around the consoles, mixing with the faint metallic scent of warmed circuitry. The counters gleam, wiped and bone-white, a near-theatre of control.

On the front wall: a mosaic of screens. Green arteries thread across black maps; amber pins flicker like constellations; a single red stoplight blooms where something has stalled. Lines curve and break and rejoin, as if the city were a living diagram of intention and accident. Names crawl along the margins—Brunswick, Overgate, Pier Street—each a tiny promise to someone waiting in the dusk. The operators lean forward in identical chairs, their headsets cupping their ears, their voices pitched somewhere between command and kindness.

Language has been narrowed to essentials here: numbers, times, coordinates, a clipped lexicon of movement. “Hold two minutes at Southbridge.” “Reroute via Canal Road; congestion eastbound.” The printers chatter, industrious and slightly smug; keyboards clatter in quick, pragmatic rhythms; then silence falls in brief, nervous pockets, a held breath before decisions. A thin ribbon of static trembles between frequencies. The city speaks back in squawks and pips and the occasional exhausted yawn from a driver miles away (and another coffee cools, uneasily).

In the centre console, a dispatcher watches a stubborn dot refuse to move. It throbs—a tiny heartbeat—against the calm grid. For a second, the room tightens. Fingers hover; the supervisor’s shadow leans. Questions arrive, orderly but urgent: what, where, why? Screens reshuffle themselves with brisk obedience; contingency maps unfold; a script emerges from muscle memory. They thread instructions through the network—slow down here, hold back there, make space, be patient—until the snag loosens. The red relents to amber, then green. The room exhales.

Beyond the glass, unnoticed floodlights comb the tracks and roads; inside, the glow is lunar, almost tender. It is not glamorous—the graveyard shift rarely is—but it is meticulous, and it matters. Here the city’s arteries are watched, counted, corrected, again and again, so that strangers meet their trains, buses kneel for prams, sirens carve clear lanes. Dawn is still theoretical. Yet the maps already pale at the edges, as if morning were thinking of them, and the operators straighten, ready for another inevitable surge.

Option B:

Morning arrived like a notification: bright, insistent, impossible to ignore. Screens winked awake in kitchen corners and on bedside tables; voices murmured to smart speakers; turnstiles clicked their metal tongues at stations. The city had learned to breathe with an app called Flow. It hummed beneath conversations and traffic, a discreet metronome keeping time—telling buses when to kneel, doors when to slide, crossings when to chirp; rationing green across junctions; tallying coffees, tickets, deliveries, even the lifts’ quiet climbs. Flow made everything feel frictionless. If there was a mind in the miles of road and track and wire, it was this.

At 8:17 a.m., that mind blinked. The screens offered a bland apology—Updating, please wait—and then the world stalled. It didn’t crash with sirens and sparks; it was gentler, and stranger, like a song paused mid-note. Traffic lights held their breath on red. Barriers at stations froze halfway, teeth bared. Bike docks refused to release their gleaming frames. Card readers turned grey and unhelpful. The logic was safety first—no green, no go—so everything obeyed. Engines idled; conversations faltered; the endless cascade of footsteps thinned as if someone had turned down the city’s volume.

Theo was stranded under the ring road where morning light arrived in ribbons. His phone showed a pale map reduced to a nervous grid, his jobs feed empty, his battery icon suddenly, absurdly, menacing. He tapped. He swiped. He shook the device as if urgency could be transferred by touch. Nothing. Around him, a courier in a fluorescent jacket thumped a docking station with his palm; a woman with a pushchair stared at a silent gate; an elderly man leaned on his cane and blinked at the words Try again. Theo lifted his head and tried to remember the way to Bracken Street without a blue line to shepherd him. It was embarrassing to admit—even to himself—that he hesitated.

Sirens started and then guttered into a cough. A bus exhaled and sat heavy at the kerb. For a moment there was a peculiar quiet, not exactly silence, more a padded hush, as if snow had fallen invisibly and muffled the edges. Somewhere a pigeon clattered. Somewhere a child laughed, and then didn’t.

“What now?” the elderly man asked, not unkindly.

“We walk,” someone said. It sounded brave and also naïve. How do you cross a city that has decided it will not move?

People began negotiating the old-fashioned way: calling out; lifting a pram over a barrier; stepping off the kerb to guide a driver inch by inch. A traffic officer raised a hand and stepped into the intersection like a conductor without a baton. Theo pocketed his phone. His chain squeaked as he pushed. Above the ring road the sky was a clear, extraordinary blue, indifferent to all of this. For the first time in a long time, he could hear the river.

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

Option A:

The room hums with patient electricity, an aquarium of blue light held inside the dark building. Screens stack in gentle rows, like windows cut into night; each pane shows a different slice of the city, a lattice of lines and blinking dots. Clocks tick in a high, white strip above the glass—London time, depot time, the time that matters is the here-and-now. Air-conditioning whispers. Someone’s mug leaves a pale ring on the desk, and cold coffee carries a bitter smell that lodges at the back of the throat.

On the largest screen, the network spreads like arteries across a body: red, green, yellow threads; junctions pulse with tiny, careful numerals. Trains crawl, buses nudge, ferries nudge too though slower, and the river itself is a glossy slash. Radios crackle with clipped voices, the rhythm hypnotic: “Control to seven-two… copy.” A keyboard clatters; a chair rolls and squeaks; a highlighter flicks its lid. The lights don’t so much shine as glow—fluorescent and flat—so that faces look pale, determined. On, off. On, off. The indicator in the corner blinks a quiet warning like a heartbeat.

Meanwhile, the operators lean forward, headsets cupping their ears, eyes moving not wildly but with practised sweeps. A city is a machine and this is the dashboard, yet there is something human about it too; the map breathes when the commuter surge begins, it exhales when a late service rests under a bridge. On the noticeboard, laminated rules sit next to a small photograph of last year’s team, smiling in daylight. The whiteboard beneath is scrawled with times, initials, and little arrows that bend like hurried thoughts.

Then—a new amber square shivers at the edge of the grid. A signal failure, platform three; someone in a raincoat on CCTV raises their hand as if to ask for help. “Hold two southbound,” says a calm voice, already typing. Another hand reaches for the phone, already dialing. There is movement but not panic, a tightening of focus; messages thread out to drivers, to stations, to the app that complains if it is not fed. Outside, sirens smear the air; inside, a finger draws a careful loop on the map and reroutes the line.

Afterwards, the amber drains back to green. The city resumes its slow tide and the room loosens. A chair sighs back. Notes are logged, neatly, the story stored in boxes and codes the public will never see. Night leans in at the windows, and the operators keep watching—again, and again—until the first pale strip of morning suggests change without asking for it yet.

Option B:

Morning. The city exhaled steam and schedule; buses murmured, coffee machines hissed, traffic lights pulsed in neat time. All of it was choreographed by a small, bright square: the app. It woke alarms, unlocked turnstiles, and sorted payments. It promised ease (or so the adverts said), and the city—tired, hurried, hopeful—let itself be carried on that promise.

At 08:03, the square stilled. A white ring spun and then snagged, like a key catching in a lock. Across avenues and tunnels, screens froze; messages hung unsent; neat QR codes smudged into useless pattern. Shop doors waited for permissions that didn’t arrive; traffic lights stuck on amber.

Nothing moved.

Not the bus doors that sighed but did not open. Not the station escalators that hummed, coughed, and then gave up. Not the bikes lined like obedient soldiers, waiting for a tap that didn’t count.

Noah stood with his thumb hovering over the scanner. It was a tiny ritual: glass, a green tick, a gate that fluttered open. Today the glass was blank, and his screen, despite swipes, offered only the wheel. Behind him, a sigh thickened; ahead, the barrier sat like a mouth that wouldn’t speak. He was meant to be uptown by nine—for an interview—yet time felt like oil on a puddle: thin and ungraspable.

Meanwhile, a bakery till blinked error and the barista’s hands hovered over cups they couldn’t charge for. Office towers remained sealed because the security app didn’t recognise anybody. Out on the ring road, drivers stared at a ribbon of red that refused to loosen, traffic lights held mid-sequence like a sunset that would not end.

For a second, a hush fell—a held breath—before the city found its voice again: horns complained, shoes scuffed, somebody laughed too loudly. People looked up; they looked at each other. Words travelled without Wi-Fi. Noah pocketed his useless phone. A paper map—ignored for years—became suddenly precious. It might take an hour; it might take more. He nodded at a woman with the same thought and turned toward the stairs.

Outside, the morning had changed shape. Buses idled; pigeons claimed the road; giant screens showed that patient circle. The city, halted, tried to remember its feet. Without routes in their ears, people began to move anyway—one step, then another—into a day without a green tick.

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

Option A:

Night presses against the high windows; inside, the room glows a careful blue. The air-conditioning breathes steadily, a low hush that makes the fluorescent panels look colder. Rows of screens rise like a quiet city of glass, each one alive with moving light.

Maps spread across the monitors: veins and arteries in bright threads—green, amber, red—crawling east to west and back again. Blue routes mark buses through estates; silver dots drift for trams. Numbers slide in columns; small clocks glare. Icons blink in stubborn rhythm. On, off. On, off. A camera square shows a platform yawning; drizzle beads on black rails, a faint necklace the colour of tin.

At the long desk, operators sit with headsets balanced over hair flattened by long hours. Their fingers travel keys and touchscreens—quick, small movements—like birds hopping wire to wire. Coffee cools in paper cups, leaving faint brown rings; notebooks hold cramped, precise shorthand. Their voices stay low, almost level: they listen, they answer, they note.

Sound is layered: radio static fizzing; a printer ticking at the edge of the room; a distant beep—thin, insistent—threading through it all. When an alert blooms, a red box opens like a wound on the map. Chairs scrape; the city quadrant swells to the foreground; someone’s eyes sharpen. Instructions come steady and clear: 'Hold platform three; reroute southbound; confirm driver.' An operator repeats those words—quietly, almost politely—and the red softens to amber.

Afterwards, the screens settle back to their quiet tide, and the rhythm returns, patient but never sleepy. The city, folded into light, seems to breathe on the glass. You feel the weight of its movement, even though you cannot hear the streets outside. Beyond the windows the night keeps leaning in; inside, the map keeps beating, and they keep watch.

Option B:

At nine o'clock, the city held its breath. Traffic lights blinked once, then froze, red coins pinned to corners. Buses lined the avenue like beads on a broken necklace; engines slid into an uneasy hush. On the screens, the same thin sentence: Please wait. A wind pushed paper cups in anxious circles. The app—Pulse, the one that ran tickets, doors, traffic, even coffee—had stumbled, and the whole place felt suddenly off, like a song skipping.

Maya stood outside her building with her phone raised, thumb hovering, as if patience might persuade it. The front door's sensor stayed blind. No green circle. No quiet click. She tried to refresh; a wheel turned and turned. People around her muttered, tapping and swiping in irritation. Someone laughed, but it sounded brittle. Beyond the locked glass she could see her bus, a bright red promise she couldn't reach. The pavement smelled of rain and petrol.

Down the street, a cafe's shutter was stuck halfway, teeth bared. QR codes on the counter looked foolish, like instructions for a trick nobody could perform. Cyclists hesitated at junctions; drivers kept their hands tight on wheels. The city had been built on convenience, on one small icon that promised to organise everything—now it untangled. Please wait, the adverts repeated. Please wait. A siren started then died; the silence that followed felt heavier than noise.

Maya slipped her phone into her pocket and pressed her palm to the door, feeling the faint vibration of the building, the lift stuck between floors. She had trusted Pulse like a friend. It seemed childish now. Above her, pigeons clattered like loose change, and a bus driver lowered his head onto the wheel. She stepped back and looked along the street. If the city would not move for her, she would move for herself: she started to walk.

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

Option A:

Screens glow like small moons in a dim room; the city is spread out in pixels, breathing in and out. Fans murmur in the ceiling and a thin whirr sits in the corners. Tap-tap, tap-tap: fingers on keys, light and quick. Layered maps on glass show lines that slide, pause, then slide again. A cold mug of coffee leaves a ring; the smell of burnt dust lifts when someone nudges a monitor awake. Green indicators blink as if thinking what to do next, patient, then not.

Operators sit in swivel chairs, headset cushions pressed to ears, backs slightly curved. Faces are washed in blue-white light. They speak in clipped phrases—Control to Tram Two; confirm hold at Central. A hand flicks; another reaches, steady. Their arms move like conductors of a quiet orchestra, careful to keep time. At the far wall a big clock crawls. One woman chews a pen cap. Another rubs tired eyes. Someone laughs, then stops as the channel opens.

On the largest screen the city looks like a body; routes are veins, tiny signals are pulses. A blockage blooms red, a road sealed after an incident; buses reroute, trains wait, people sigh and stand. For a breath everything feels paused, held tight, and then it all begins again. Sometimes an alarm shrieks and the room jumps; sometimes there is only the soft whisper of the radio. Outside the night presses on the glass, inside the room stays calm on purpose. Click-clack, click-clack; the screens glow and the city keeps going.

Option B:

Monday. The time of alarms, timetables and tiny screens; trains humming under streets, buses shouldering through puddles, coffee steaming in quick hands. A city practised in movement, always clicking forward.

At 8:07, every screen on the bus stop flickered and froze. Flow, the app that ran tickets and traffic and even take-away coffees, threw up a grey box: Service Unavailable. Someone laughed, a weak sound. Then the bus rolled in, sighed its doors open—and stayed there. The reader on the pole blinked once, died. The driver shrugged without humour. “System’s down,” he said, like the weather.

Maya tightened her grip on her rucksack. Interview at nine. She pressed her thumb to her phone. Spinning wheel, spinning thoughts. No routes. No tickets. No signal. Around her, the city seemed to hold its breath; engines idled, a siren cried somewhere and cut off mid-note, traffic lights stuck on red like they’d been painted that colour.

At first we waited. We always wait. We queue, we tut, we refresh. But nothing refreshed. The pigeons strutted freely, as if they owned the square. The café door opened, released a warm gust of toast and burnt sugar, and the man inside tried to take cash, then remembered he couldn’t—Flow had replaced it last month.

By half past, pavements thickened. People walked, then stalled, then just stood. A cyclist tipped over like a slow domino when the bridge lift froze mid-rise. Maya looked at the map that refused to load. How could a thing you can’t even touch stop everything. We waited; the city didn’t move.

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

Option A:

Blue screens glow like cold windows, staining the dark room with a pale light. On the biggest wall the city map breathes; roads and tracks open like veins, tiny dots crawling. The air-conditioning hums steady, thin draught lifts the corner of a pinned notice. Radios crackle with clipped voices, full of numbers. Coffee sits in paper cups, sweet. There is dozens of routes to watch, and not a second to waste.

At the centre, an operator sits with a headset, eyes flicking across a grid of panels. Fingers fly, then pause, then fly again; a mouse drags a tiny train from one platform to another. A supervisor stands behind, watchful. Only one rule: keep everything moving. Sticky notes crowd the edges. An algorithm suggests; they decide. On the desk a flourescent strip buzzes—too bright—so someone covers it with paper.

Sometimes an alarm cuts the calm and a red square blinks. Questions spill: what, where, how long? Who is awake out there? Then the flow returns, again and again, the lights pulsing like a quiet heart. The screens blink, the city answers. In this glass cave they guide buses, trains, people; they guide the night until morning walks in.

Option B:

Monday. Rush hour. The city hummed like a giant engine, trains rattled, coffee steam rose, shoes slapped the pavement. On nearly every screen a bright blue app shone; a small square sun people cupped in their hands.

At first it was just a pause. A circle turned and turned, the loading bar stuck, a polite message that said, please wait. People waited, cars edged forward and then stopped. A bus sighed. Then the message changed: Error 504. The icon blinked and froze—dead. It felt as if the city held its breath.

Turnstiles locked; doors wouldn’t open; traffic lights went red and stayed there. My phone warmed in my palm as I tapped and swiped like that could wake it up. A woman next to me muttered about being late, a cyclist put his foot down and stared at the jam. We could hear birds, which was strange, and an ambulance blue light flashing but not moving.

We thought it would be a minute, then five, then more. What do we do now? someone said. Pay cash? No cash accepted. Because CityPass ran everything: buses, bins, lunch, lights. We had put our day into a little icon, and now the day fell out, slow and heavy.

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

Option A:

It is late and the room is full of light. There is screens everywhere, they blink and blink. They are blue and green; they make the room feel cold.

Chairs roll on the floor and the wheels squeak. A clock clicks too loud.

People sit close with headsets, speaking into small mics. Their faces are pale like paper. I hear beep, beep, beep and the soft tap of keys. The air is dry and smells like coffee and dust.

A big map on the wall shows roads and trains and little dots moving slow like they are lost it keeps going and going and a red line flashs, someone writes notes.

The screens look back at me like eyes, they watch and wait. Wires crawl under the desks like thin snakes.

A fan turns and it never stops, never stops. Outside the city goes on. Inside we try to keep it moving.

Option B:

The app was supposed to make things easy. You tap it for the bus, the lights, the gate at the station. This morning it blinked and then it froze, and the city did too. It was like a toy with no batteries.

Everything stopped.

I stood at the crossing with my bag. The red man stayed red and the cars hummed but they didn’t go, drivers looking at screens, thumbs tapping hard. People shuffled, someone said its fine, just restart, but nothing worked, we all waited, the wind felt cold on my face. I kept swiping, my phone buzzed once and then nothing - the tiny square on the screen was stuck. Buses lined up like a long metal snake and the train above us sat there and sighed. A bike fell, a child cried, a siren in the distance kept on but no ambulance came past.

The city held its breath and I was late.

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

Option A:

So many screens. The room is dark and bright at the same time and there is too many screens that glow blue and green. Beep beep and a click of keys and a voice on the radio saying numbers for buses and trains. A map on the wall and train lines that cross and it looks like a spider web and my eyes hurt. Chairs roll and the floor hums. Someone drinks coffee and it smells sharp, I think it is late. Clocks show times. Outside rain, inside hot and still. A red light flashes and everyone looks up.

Option B:

Morning. The city is busy and then it is not. The app turns off or it dies, it just spins like a stuck wheel. People wait for the bus and the bus don't come. Cars stop and trains is stuck, some lights go blank, doors don't open. I hold my phone, I tap it again and again but nothing. I dont know what to do, I just stand. People shout and some just stare, there faces all tight. A dog runs with a bag in its mouth. I remember cold toast and tea and I feel small.