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 At the end of which street do you find the Arcade of the Pont Neuf?: Rue Guénégaud – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the narrator, at the end of which street is the Arcade of the Pont Neuf found?: Rue Guénégaud – 1 mark
• 1.3 At the most, how many paces long is the arcade?: Thirty paces – 1 mark
• 1.4 What forms the roof?: square panes of glass – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 filth. On fine days in the summer, when the streets are burning with heavy sun, whitish light falls from the dirty glazing overhead to drag miserably through the arcade. On nasty days in winter, on foggy mornings, the glass throws

11 nothing but darkness on the sticky tiles—unclean and abominable gloom. To the left are obscure, low, dumpy shops whence issue puffs of air as cold as if coming from a cellar. Here are dealers in toys, cardboard boxes, second- hand books. The articles displayed in their windows are covered with dust, and

How does the writer use language here to describe the arcade and its atmosphere? 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 personification and parallel seasonal clauses, the writer makes the arcade relentlessly oppressive: paradoxical light where whitish light ... drag miserably and the glass throws nothing but darkness subverts brightness, suggesting inertia and suffocation. Blunt judgement in the fragment filth., hyperbolic unclean and abominable gloom, a tricolon of flattening adjectives obscure, low, dumpy, the chilling simile puffs of air as cold as if coming from a cellar, and the dusty list toys, cardboard boxes, second-hand books build a sensory field of squalor and neglect.

The writer immediately establishes squalor with the blunt minor sentence "filth", before using pathetic fallacy and personification to saturate the arcade. Even "on fine days in the summer", the "whitish light" does not brighten but "falls ... to drag miserably through the arcade": the adverb "miserably" and the verb "drag" humanise the light, suggesting weary lifelessness. In antithesis, "on nasty days in winter ... the glass throws nothing but darkness" — personifying the "glass" as an agent that hurls gloom. The absoluteness of "nothing but" underscores an inescapable murk.

Lexis laden with disgust deepens the atmosphere. Tactile imagery in "sticky tiles" makes the reader feel the grime, while the evaluative "unclean and abominable gloom", amplified by the dash, makes the darkness morally repellent. The adjectival triplet "obscure, low, dumpy shops" compresses the units of commerce into squat, joyless blocks. Archaic syntax in "whence issue puffs of air" and the formal lexis "issue" evoke a stale, old-fashioned airlessness.

Furthermore, the simile "puffs of air as cold as if coming from a cellar" conjures a subterranean chill, implying buried, lightless spaces that leach cold into the passage. Moreover, the asyndetic list — "toys, cardboard boxes, second-hand books" — creates a drab heap of the cheap and outworn, reinforced by "covered with dust", a final image of neglect. Even the deictic "To the left" and controlled declaratives guide our eye through decay, creating an oppressive, stagnant atmosphere.

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 clearly explains that negative adjectives and sensory imagery like 'filth', 'dirty glazing', and 'sticky tiles' create a squalid, oppressive mood, while personification in 'whitish light... drag miserably', hyperbole 'nothing but darkness', the simile 'puffs of air as cold as if coming from a cellar', and the cramped 'obscure, low, dumpy shops' emphasise a chilling, unhealthy atmosphere. The dash in 'tiles—unclean and abominable gloom' intensifies the condemnation, and the seasonal contrast 'On fine days... On nasty days' shows the bleakness is constant.

The writer personifies light to present an oppressive arcade: “whitish light … drag miserably through the arcade”. The verb “drag” and adverb “miserably” suggest weight and depression, so even on “fine days in the summer” the interior feels joyless. Likewise, “the glass throws nothing but darkness” uses paradoxical personification to imply corruption, deepening the gloom on “sticky tiles”.

Moreover, bleak adjectives create a shabby atmosphere. The shops are “obscure, low, dumpy”, a blunt triad that makes them seem squat and mean. The noun phrase “puffs of air” hints at stale breaths, and the simile “as cold as if coming from a cellar” evokes damp, underground chill; coupled with “toys, cardboard boxes, second-hand books”, this semantic field suggests the arcade is lifeless and unwanted.

Furthermore, sensory detail and sentence form intensify disgust. The tactile “sticky tiles” and evaluative “unclean and abominable gloom” make the place feel filthy. The fragment “filth.” acts as a minor sentence to set a harsh tone, and the dash before “—unclean and abominable gloom” foregrounds the narrator’s judgement. Altogether, the language constructs a bleak, oppressive atmosphere in the arcade.

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 negative adjectives and imagery like "dirty glazing", "sticky tiles", and "obscure, low, dumpy" to make the arcade seem unpleasant, with personification in "whitish light... to drag miserably" and the comparison "as cold as if coming from a cellar" adding to the cold, gloomy feel. The contrast between "fine days" and "nasty days", the exaggeration "nothing but darkness", and the list "toys, cardboard boxes, second-hand books" (all "covered with dust") show a dull, neglected atmosphere.

The writer uses negative adjectives and noun phrases to present the arcade as dirty and depressing. Words like “dirty glazing,” “sticky tiles” and “unclean and abominable gloom” make the atmosphere feel grimy and unpleasant. The opening one-word sentence, “filth.” immediately sets a harsh, disgusting tone.

Furthermore, personification suggests the place weighs on people. The “whitish light… to drag miserably through the arcade” and the “glass throws nothing but darkness” make the arcade feel oppressive, as if even the light is tired and the building creates gloom. This builds a bleak, gloomy mood.

Additionally, the writer uses a simile: “puffs of air as cold as if coming from a cellar.” This comparison makes the air seem chilling and creepy. The list “dealers in toys, cardboard boxes, second-hand books” suggests cheap, neglected shops.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses negative adjectives like filth, dirty glazing, sticky tiles, and unclean and abominable gloom to make the arcade seem dirty and gloomy. The simile as cold as if coming from a cellar and saying the glass throws nothing but darkness show it feels very cold and dark.

The writer uses negative adjectives like ‘dirty’, ‘sticky’ and ‘abominable gloom’ to describe the arcade, making it seem filthy and dark. Furthermore, there is personification: ‘light... drag miserably’ and ‘the glass throws... darkness’, which makes the place feel heavy and unfriendly. Moreover, the simile ‘as cold as if coming from a cellar’ suggests a freezing, unpleasant atmosphere. Additionally, the list of shops, ‘toys, cardboard boxes, second-hand books’, and ‘covered with dust’ makes it look old and dull. Overall, the language makes the arcade seem gloomy and unpleasant.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Minor sentence/frontal noun → instant, uncompromising squalor sets the tone → (filth)
• Diminishing colour adjective → weakens brightness so light feels sickly and soiled → (whitish light)
• Personification of light’s movement → illumination seems burdened and joyless, thickening the air → (drag miserably)
• Structural repetition/seasonal juxtaposition → shows the arcade is oppressive in all weathers → (On fine days)
• Absolute negation → stresses total absence of light, deepening the gloom → (nothing but darkness)
• Emphatic dash adds judgment → afterthought condemns the scene as morally foul → (unclean and abominable)
• Pejorative adjectival tricolon → creates a cramped, ugly, uninviting impression of the shops → (obscure, low, dumpy)
• Simile for the air → conjures clammy, subterranean chill and unease → (as cold as)
• Tactile sensory detail → makes the grime physically felt by the reader → (sticky tiles)
• Mundane noun catalogue → suggests cheapness and neglect in the arcade’s trade → (toys, cardboard boxes)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would track a deliberate progression from the initial orientation to place—the 'narrow, dark corridor' and to-the-left/to-the-right cataloguing—through temporal shifts (summer/winter; day to night) where 'Nobody speaks, nobody stays there', to a nocturnal re-staging as 'three gas burners' turn the arcade into a 'cut-throat alley' lit by 'funeral lamps', showing how each structural turn intensifies eeriness. It would also analyse the final zoom from impersonal movement and objects to the named sign 'MERCERY' and 'Thérèse Raquin', arguing that this delayed specificity, after the 'unclean and abominable gloom' and 'irritating irregularity' of footsteps, converts ambient dread into personal foreboding.

One way in which the writer has structured the opening to create eeriness is through a funnelled spatial trajectory combined with directive second-person address. At the start, “you find the Arcade,” a “narrow, dark corridor,” and the narrative then choreographs our gaze “to the left” and “to the right,” controlling what we see and when. This guided sweep functions like a slow pan from approach to interior, while the corridor’s brevity (“thirty paces long”) paradoxically elongates reading time through meticulous surveying. The enforced, schematic movement through enclosed space generates claustrophobia and an unsettling sense that the reader is being shepherded into obscurity.

In addition, temporal structuring and modulation of light intensify the eeriness as the source unfolds. The focus shifts from “fine days in the summer” to “nasty days in winter,” then to “throughout the day,” before the pivotal transition to night: “The arcade is lit at night by three gas burners.” This sequencing creates a structural crescendo, as pallid daylight that “drag[s] miserably” gives way to “funeral lamps” and a “cut-throat alley.” After an initial visual tableau, the belated introduction of sound—“a sharp hurried ring of footsteps… with irritating irregularity”—alters the sensory focus and disturbs rhythm, slowing narrative pace so we anticipate threat in the gloom.

A further structural element is the delayed narrowing of focus to a named locus at the end, which leaves an uncanny afterimage. After cataloguing stalls and a “dozing” dealer, the text uses an analeptic shift—“A few years back”—to reveal a single frontage whose sign reads “MERCERY” and, in red, “Thérèse Raquin.” This strategic withholding foregrounds the name by final position, converting the setting into ominous prelude. The earlier catalogue of “objects… forgotten for twenty years” foreshadows this memory-work, so the closing reveal operates as a structural hook, sealing the eerie mood with poised, expectant unease.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer structures the passage from an ominous overview — "a sort of narrow, dark corridor", "worn, loose, yellowish tiles" — through a spatial sweep "To the left"/"To the right" and the impersonal flow of people "Nobody speaks, nobody stays there", creating an oppressive, eerie atmosphere. A time shift intensifies this as "The arcade is lit at night by three gas burners", becoming a "cut-throat alley" with "three funeral lamps", and the delayed focus on the sign "MERCERY" and the name "Thérèse Raquin" "in red" at the end provides a sinister focal point that leaves the reader uneasy.

One way the writer structures the opening to create eeriness is through a spatial journey. We begin with an establishing view of a "narrow, dark corridor", then the focus tracks from roof to floor, to the left-hand shops and the opposing wall. These shifts in focus, carried by extended sentences, slow the pace and enclose the reader, so the place feels airless and inescapable.

In addition, the writer organises the passage through temporal references. The sequence moves from "On fine days" to "On nasty days in winter" and "Throughout the day" before culminating "at night". This progression builds to a structural climax as the arcade becomes "a regular cut-throat alley". The contrast between the daytime rush—"nobody speaks, nobody stays"—and the nocturnal "funeral lamps" turns dreary realism into threat.

A further structural choice is the final narrowing of focus and a retrospective. After the wide view, the narrative zooms in on one dealer dozing, then shifts "a few years back" to a single shop named "Thérèse Raquin". This change in focus and time acts as a hook, withholding explanation and fixing our attention on one ominous detail. It ends on “soft, obscured light”, sustaining ambiguity.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts by describing the gloomy setting to create unease, calling it a "narrow, dark corridor" with a roof "black with filth", then adds unsettling details like "objects without a name" and that "Nobody speaks" so the eeriness builds. Later the structure shifts to night with "three gas burners" and it becomes a "cut-throat alley", before zooming in on the dozing shopkeeper and the signs "MERCERY" and "Thérèse Raquin", leaving a mysterious, eerie ending.

One way the writer structures the text to create eeriness is by starting with a detailed setting. At the beginning, the arcade is a "narrow, dark corridor" with "worn, loose" tiles and glass "black with filth". This opening creates a closed‑in, creepy mood.

In addition, the focus shifts and contrasts build eeriness. In the middle, the writer moves from left to right and shows silent passers-by: "Nobody speaks". Then it goes from day to night ("The arcade is lit at night"). This change makes the place get more eerie, a "cut‑throat alley" with "funeral lamps".

A further structural feature is the end zoom in and time shift. After the scene, we zoom into one dealer "dozing" and then a flashback, "A few years back", to the shop sign "MERCERY" and the red name "Thérèse Raquin". This delayed focus suggests hidden past, which feels eerie.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: It starts by describing a narrow, dark corridor and then later shows it lit at night by three gas burners, turning it into a cut-throat alley with funeral lamps, which makes it feel scary. The writer also shows people hurrying — Nobody speaks, nobody stays there — so it goes from a general setting to darker, scarier details.

One way the writer structures the text is by opening with the setting. The first focus is the arcade itself, called a 'narrow, dark corridor' and 'black with filth', which straightaway feels eerie.

In addition, the writer shifts time from day to night. The focus goes from busy footsteps and 'nobody speaks' to 'cut-throat alley' and 'funeral lamps' at night, so the eeriness increases.

A further structural feature is zooming in. We move from the whole place to the shops and finally to one name, 'Thérèse Raquin', so the ending narrows and leaves a creepy, uneasy feeling.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening with a claustrophobic spatial frame establishes confinement and unease (narrow, dark corridor)
• Precise dimensions and cumulative decay immediately saturate the setting with oppressive texture, heightening eeriness (worn, loose, yellowish tiles)
• Seasonal shift from washed-out day to heavy winter darkness escalates the mood towards menace (nothing but darkness)
• Left-to-right tour (shops, then wall of cupboards) controls reader movement, revealing uncanny relics to suggest neglect and mystery (objects without a name)
• Second-person directives position the reader as a hurried passer-by, making the oppressive route feel unavoidable (You take it)
• The mid-section pivots to human flow and sound, using silence and erratic footsteps to unsettle (irritating irregularity)
• A structural time-of-day turn to night introduces unstable, vanishing light, deepening uncertainty (pale glimmer)
• Metaphoric redefinition of the space at night signals overt threat and morbidity (cut-throat alley)
• Brief zoom-ins on isolated light sources amid darkness create uncanny, jewel-like lures within gloom (glistening stars)
• Final temporal shift to the arcade’s past plants an ominous backstory and a named focus that promises later significance (Thérèse Raquin)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 31 to the end.

In this part of the source, the shops are described as dusty and forgotten. The writer suggests that the arcade is a place where everything, including the people, is left to slowly decay.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the arcade as a place of decay
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the dusty forgotten shops
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, evaluating how the writer’s viewpoint constructs the arcade as moribund, where both setting and people decline. It would analyse funereal/sinister imagery ("three funeral lamps", "cut-throat alley", "subterranean gallery"), personified decay ("excreted damp", "holes sheltering night in the daytime"), and character detail ("The dealer is dozing") to argue that even the faint, artificial light ("pale glimmer", "glistening stars") ironically intensifies neglect rather than restores vitality.

I largely agree that the writer renders the arcade as neglected and moribund, though the decay he evokes is more damp and funereal than “dusty”. From the outset it is “not a place for a stroll” but a “short cut”, and the second‑person address (“You take it”) imposes a utilitarian pace. The repeated negation in “Nobody speaks, nobody stays” and the image of “bent heads” create social erasure, while “without taking a single glance at the shops” positions the windows as literally forgotten. Even the soundscape—“a sharp hurried ring of footsteps” with “irritating irregularity”—mechanises people into restless noise.

As the description slides into evening, the lighting imagery deepens the decay. The arcade is lit by just “three gas burners” in “heavy square lanterns”, a drained palette of “fawn‑coloured” “pale glimmer” whose light “seem[s] at moments to disappear.” This chiaroscuro culminates in a stark metaphor: a “cut‑throat alley,” “a subterranean gallery… lit‑up by three funeral lamps.” The funereal semantic field and the downward pull of “subterranean” suggest a space half interred. Even the air “damp puffs” in, so the dominant texture is clammy rot rather than dust.

When the narrative zooms into individual shopfronts, impoverished light and enclosure underscore neglect. Tradespeople make do with “the faint rays” from outside; inside, a shaded lamp reveals “the depths of these holes sheltering night in the daytime”—a paradox that personifies the shops as cavities hoarding darkness. Against a “blackish line of shop fronts”, small flames “pierce the shadow,” but their theatrical glimmer falls on “imitation jewelry”: even the wares are ersatz, commerce that only imitates vitality. The people are similarly enervated: the dealer “is dozing in her cupboard,” a cramped, coffin‑like image that entombs her, while “old men… drag themselves forward” through the “sad gloaming.”

Even so, I would nuance the claim of universal decay. The daytime crowd—“apprentices” and “bands of small children” who “make a noise by stamping their feet”—injects a discordant vitality. Yet the pejorative modifiers (“irritating,” “bent,” “sad”) and the tradesmen’s “air of alarm” recast that movement as inimical to trade; life runs past rather than into the shops. The brief flashback—“a few years back,” when the “bottle‑green woodwork excreted damp” and the signboard read “MERCERY”—confirms slow, chronic decline. Overall, I agree to a great extent: not dusty so much as light‑starved and damp, a place where even names in “red” sit behind glass like lifeblood trapped in a display.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would largely agree, explaining that the writer uses gloomy imagery and contrast to present decay—calling the arcade a "cut-throat alley", lit by "funeral lamps", with a "blackish line" of shop fronts and woodwork that excreted damp, and a dealer dozing—while noting slight vitality in the "flaming" lamps and "glistening stars" to suggest a faint resistance to neglect.

I largely agree with the statement that the arcade is a place where the shops and even the people are left to decay, although the atmosphere is more damp and shadowed than literally “dusty.” From the outset, the writer juxtaposes the frantic movement of passers-by with the stagnation of trade. The listing of “apprentices,” “work-girls” and “persons of both sexes with parcels” creates pace, but the repetition “Nobody speaks, nobody stays” and the detail that all pass “without taking a single glance at the shops” suggest the commerce is functionally forgotten. The tradesmen’s “air of alarm” when someone “by a miracle” stops is evaluative: it implies neglect so entrenched that interest is abnormal.

As day turns to night, the semantic field of death and darkness intensifies the sense of decay. The gas flames give only “pale glimmer” that “seem at moments to disappear,” implying a failing life-force. Metaphor and comparison depict menace: the arcade “assumes the aspect of a regular cut-throat alley,” and could be “a subterranean gallery” lit by “three funeral lamps.” These choices create a morbid tone, while sensory imagery—“great shadows,” “damp puffs of air”—evokes physical rot.

Inside, the shops are figured as “holes sheltering night in the daytime,” a bleak metaphor for spaces that swallow light and custom. Though one window is “flaming,” the light is meagre: a “candle” “stuck” in an old lamp suggests makeshift poverty. People, too, seem to wither: the dealer is “dozing in her cupboard,” and earlier “old men…drag themselves,” images of human decline. Personification—woodwork that “excreted damp”—suggests the very fabric of the place oozes decay. Structurally, the shift “A few years back” to the “MERCERY” shop in “soft, obscured light” implies long-term fading rather than a sudden collapse.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer presents an arcade neglected by its users and slowly rotting, where both premises and people are dimmed and depleted, even if not entirely abandoned.

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 that the arcade and its people are left to decay, using simple details like 'nobody stays there', 'bent heads', and the dealer 'dozing' to show lifelessness and neglect. It would briefly note how dark descriptions such as 'cut-throat alley', 'three funeral lamps', and 'bottle-green woodwork excreted damp' make the place seem dusty and forgotten.

I mostly agree that the arcade is shown as a forgotten place where things and even people seem to decay. Right away, the narrator says it is “not a place for a stroll” but a shortcut used by “busy people,” and “nobody speaks, nobody stays… without taking a single glance at the shops.” This creates the impression that the shops are ignored, almost invisible, and the workers pass with “bent heads,” which makes the people feel worn down.

The writer uses dark imagery to suggest decay. At night there are only “three gas burners” giving “pale glimmer,” and the arcade “assumes the aspect of a regular cut-throat alley.” Calling the lamps “funeral lamps” and the place a “subterranean gallery” makes it seem like a tomb. Details like “great shadows” and “damp puffs of air” add gloom. Even the buildings seem sick: the “bottle-green woodwork excreted damp,” a verb that personifies the shopfront as diseased.

Specific shops keep this mood. The interiors are “holes sheltering night in the daytime,” so the goods sit in near-dark. The jeweller’s “imitation jewelry” is lit by a “candle… [that] casts glistening stars,” which sounds bright but also cheap and desperate. The dealer is “dozing in her cupboard,” suggesting lifelessness. The old “MERCERY,” shown in “soft, obscured light,” feels neglected.

Overall, I agree. The writer’s light-and-dark imagery and negative word choices make the arcade feel neglected and rotting. It is more damp and shadowy than dusty, but the people and shops seem to be fading away.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would broadly agree that the writer shows the arcade as decaying and gloomy, pointing to simple details like 'cut-throat alley', 'funeral lamps', and 'damp puffs of air'. It would just pick out phrases such as 'holes sheltering night', the dealer 'dozing', woodwork that 'excreted damp', and goods in 'soft, obscured light' to show things (and people) are left to fade.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part of the text, the shops seem dusty and forgotten, and the arcade feels like a place where things, and even people, are slowly wearing away.

At the start, the writer shows the arcade as somewhere to hurry through, “not a place for a stroll.” The people are “busy” and “nobody speaks, nobody stays,” which makes it feel lifeless. The image of “bent heads” suggests people are tired and worn down.

At night it becomes more decayed. The gas lights only give a “pale glimmer,” and the place looks like a “cut-throat alley” with “funeral lamps.” This dark imagery makes the arcade seem close to death, with “damp puffs of air” adding to the sense of neglect.

The shops themselves seem empty and old. They are like “holes sheltering night,” and one front “excreted damp,” which makes it feel wet and rotting. The dealer is “dozing,” and the old men “drag themselves,” so even the people feel faded. The “imitation jewelry” lit by a single “candle” also seems cheap and forgotten.

Overall, I agree because the writer’s language and imagery make the arcade appear neglected, gloomy, and slowly decaying.

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:

• Grotesque disease metaphor on the wall → makes decay feel bodily and contagious (covered with leprosy)
• Explicit timescale of neglect in the stock → signals long-term abandonment of goods and space (goods forgotten for twenty years)
• Absolute, repeated negation about passers-by → social lifelessness: people refuse to linger, deepening neglect (nobody speaks, nobody stays)
• Tradespeople’s anxious surveillance of rare customers → implies economic decay and desperation (air of alarm)
• Night lighting framed as deathly ritual → the arcade feels moribund rather than lively (three funeral lamps)
• Violent alley metaphor → neglect shades into menace, suggesting a degraded environment (cut-throat alley)
• Interiors figured as lightless pits → suggests stale, unwelcoming spaces that repel life (sheltering night)
• Character detail of the stallholder’s lethargy → human presence appears drained, echoing the place’s stagnation (dozing in her cupboard)
• Grotesque personification of old woodwork → long-standing physical rot confirms a history of decay (excreted damp)
• Isolated flares of light as contrast → fleeting vitality only sharpens the prevailing gloom (pierce the shadow)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

An organisation that maintains national trails is collecting creative pieces for its new website.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a path through wild coastal heathland from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a journey that changes everything.

(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 path scythes through the heath, a pale ribbon pulled taut toward the wavering gleam where land unfastens its grip on the sea. It begins almost casually, between two grey posts furred with lichen, then narrows, then widens, as though considering its options. Wind combs the scrub; wind worries the gorse, sets it rustling like dry paper. The air is salted, a clean, briny sting that lifts the throat; beneath it runs a sweeter note, that strange coconut breath of warm gorse flowers. Already, somewhere overhead, a skylark unwinds a thread of song so fine it feels like light.

Underfoot the surface is an anthology of textures: gritty quartz that crunches and flashes; powder-fine sand that shifts and sighs; a seam of peaty soil that keeps the damp and dark. The heather flares mauve and bruise-purple, a low, humming quilt; bracken crooks its brown elbows over the ditches. Here and there, thrift punctuates the margins in buttoned pinks. Bees busy themselves with single-minded purpose—thrum, settle, thrum—while a solitary chough scrawls its name against the sky. The smell is sharper now, maritime and medicinal; it seems to rinse the inside of the lungs.

Slyly, the path dodges a thicket of blackthorn, its inch-long thorns like polished obsidian. A shallow pool, left by last week’s rain, holds an inverted sky; step too near and it shivers the clouds to glass. Dragonflies flicker like bottle-glass broken into flight. On the left, a low wall of granite boulders wobbles along, laced with hare’s-tail and dried sea-pinks; on the right, gorse has been winter-burnt to soot and ember, yet even there, honeyed blossom persists. The horizon, at first a smudge, begins to clarify: steel, then silver, then a hard, astonishing blue.

As the path climbs, the wind acquires hands—fingers at the collar, palms pushing between the shoulder-blades. Salt flecks the lips; teeth grit softly with blown sand. The sound of the sea, earlier a rumour, sets its metronome: in and out, in and out, in and out. What else could the path do but lean seaward? It skims a cliff-edge bruised with thrift, skirts a slate outcrop polished by generations of cautious fingertips; a startled rabbit scrawls an exclamation through the heather and vanishes. Out there, cormorants arrow low; kittiwakes stitch silver onto the hem of waves.

Then a lull—unexpected, almost tender. The path dips into a hollow where the wind cannot find it; the air warms, the coconut scent swells, and a microcosm dawdles: ants ferry crumbs; a blue butterfly tilts; a feather catches on a tuft of grass and trembles. It is, perhaps, a little postcard-perfect, too neat for this fierce place; still, beauty insists, unabashed. Beyond the hollow the path gathers itself once more, threads the last gorse-snarled bend, and opens—finally—onto a ledge of sky.

It leads on: toward brightness, toward noise, toward the lucid crash and drag of water. And if you turn, just once, you see where you have come from—heather, bracken, stone, the pale line stitched back through the rough fabric of the heath—whole, and waiting.

Option B:

Dawn. The station unbuttons itself from the night; departure boards blink awake, spitting names of cities like omens. Cold air threads through the iron ribs of the platform, tasting faintly of metal and oranges, as though someone has peeled a clementine beside a furnace. Pigeons rearrange themselves along the roof girders, grey sentries above a tessellated floor worn to a soft, resigned shine.

I cradle the ticket as if it might bolt, a small rectangle of ineluctable paper that insists: one way. My rucksack—too large, too hopeful—thumps against my hip with each anxious step. Inside, my world is compressed and badly folded: a spare shirt, the letter that started this, luck wrapped in tissue paper. The letter had been thin but heavy. Come now, it said. Come now; she hasn’t long.

Around me, the platform hums with other stories. A child in luminous trainers runs his fingers along the bench and leaves a chalky comet trail; a man with a newspaper lowers it to check his watch, then raises it again, a semaphore of doubt; a woman in a red coat stands very still, eyes on the middle distance as if watching something I can’t see. We share a liminal hush, the quiet before the rails begin their bright, insect singing.

The train arrives with a subdued roar, its windows briefly mirroring us—me, a blurred silhouette with a stubborn jaw; the red coat woman, steadfast; the boy in light-up shoes—before the doors part with that soft, hydraulic sigh that always sounds like permission. People spill and swap: out, in, out, in. The choreography is practiced and imperfect. “Carriage B,” a guard calls, and the sound floats like a thrown coin.

Inside, the carriage smells of old rain and coffee. Seats in oxblood leather tilt their square shoulders to bask in the newborn light. I slide into a window seat and set my rucksack beside me as if it were a passenger with its own ticket and misgivings. Opposite, a student with ink-smudged fingers wrestles with a problem set; diagonal, a woman in a navy suit taps at her phone with determined, birdlike pecks. We are an alphabet of intentions, each letter separate and, somehow, part of the same word.

When the train shudders into motion, the rails begin their mantra underfoot: change, change, change. The city peels away. Graffiti-streaked walls surrender to allotments; allotments yield to fields seamed with hedgerows; fields widen, and the sky, newly confident, lifts its throat and brightens. The sun yawns open the horizon’s seam. A fox, startled, darts and vanishes in a thicket as if swallowed by a sentence.

I had always believed journeys were linear; they aren’t. They fold back on themselves, loop and fray, lead you to doors you didn’t know you’d locked. Little did I know—yes, the oldest cliché—that a single platform could ledger my life into before and after with the briskness of a clerk’s stamp. But clichés exist because they are, inconveniently, often true.

I press my forehead to the glass and watch the world strobe past: a solitary scarecrow saluting with one straw arm; a canal that remembers the sky and keeps it, shimmering; a farmhouse with windows like watchful eyes. My phone vibrates—one message, unsent. I type and delete, type and delete, until my words feel like small, bright birds I am trying to trap. Instead, I pocket the device and read the letter again, the paper rasping like a dry leaf. Come now.

Beyond the next bend the river repeats the sky in silver, and the train chooses the left-hand track with a decisive jerk. I feel the shift in my ribs. Somewhere ahead, a door is opening. Behind me, something closes softly, almost kindly, like a book that has been read to its end.

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

Option A:

The path is a pale thread pulled through the heath’s rough cloth, leading towards a narrow, shining strip of sea. It drifts around humps of heather, dips into sandy hollows; sometimes it seems to hesitate—then it angles decisively towards the light. Wind moves across it in long strokes, combing the bent grasses until they lie smooth again. Above, a wide sky; below, the resilient earth. Between them, this strip of possibility, simple and persuasive. When the cloud slides across, the colour of everything shifts subtly; the bronze of the bracken deepens, the sea hardens into slate, and the wind finds a new note.

On either side, gorse rears in stubborn, dark-green mounds, its flowers a startled yellow, sweet as coconut on the tongue. Bees barge through the blossom with industrious impatience, turning the air to a warm, granular hum. Heather knots itself into faded purples and browns; thorns clutch at my sleeve. The heath smells of salt and resin—clean, a little bitter. It is not soft. It crackles and resists, and then, grudgingly, it yields.

Underfoot, the path is scuffed shell and crushed quartz, a fine, pale scree that squeaks faintly with each step. Tufts of marram write careless hieroglyphs in the sand; seedpods tick, then pop. A lark climbs until it is a pin; a gull scribbles a low arc; the sea keeps speaking in syllables—hush, hush, hush. The wind brings the taste of iron and salt to my mouth, and it lingers.

Ahead, the horizon is blunt and bright, that metal-blue band that both invites and warns. The sea is not an edge; it is an argument with the land, constant and persuasive. Foam frets at the dark rocks beyond the heath, flinging up spindrift; the spray hangs, a brief veil. Posts lean out of the heather with rusted staples still clinging—an absent fence, an old, practical thought. Who first walked this? Who decided the line?

I follow because the path knows the easiest way: between bristles of gorse, over the patient backs of dunes, along the slight, firmed ribbon where feet have gone before. My shadow tilts; the light changes; the grass makes its dry music. For a moment the wind rises—sharp, briny, exhilarating—and everything is clear enough to name. Soon the thread will reach the shore and loosen into sand, into foam, into the sea.

Option B:

Dawn arrived like a held breath released; pale light slid across tiled roofs, and the road unspooled, a narrow promise lacquered in white paint. The town still slept: shutters tight as eyelids, a milk bottle sweating on a doorstep, a fox scissoring the alley with its tail. At the bus stop, the timetable fluttered like a thin prayer. Rosa pulled her coat tighter, feeling the air—sharp, metallic—collect around her. It was a liminal hour, and she stood exactly in its hinge.

Her rucksack was heavier than it needed to be: spare socks, the book she never finished, a cracked compass she did not know how to use. She kept adding, then removing—as if weight could protect her. In the smallest pocket lay the postcard, salt-stained. Meet me at the lighthouse. I can explain. The handwriting was unmistakable—elegant. Her brother's name had not been spoken aloud in their kitchen for years; silence had built around it like scaffolding.

The 6:12 appeared in a slow sigh of diesel, big and breathing; its doors folded back with the solemnity of theatre curtains. Rosa stepped up, handed over coins that clicked like small bones, and sank into the second row. The heater coughed into life. Condensation mapped the window, blurring the street into watercolour. Around her, other lives assembled: a boy with glitter still clinging to his cheek; a woman cradling a plant; a man who smelled faintly of oranges.

She had always been good at remaining: at tending the edges of things. Her mother's house, with its neat labels and the weekly list clipped to the fridge, made a palimpsest of days—one over another until they looked the same. Rosa had fitted herself to that pattern, obedient and precise; it was almost comfortable. Yet the question she had evaded returned now, insistent as a drip: What did he have to explain? And what if nothing waited at the lighthouse but weather and water?

The bus nosed over the river, and the town loosened behind her like a knot picked free. On the far bank, buildings rearranged into unfamiliar silhouettes. She could feel the shape of her life tilt—subtly, then all at once. This was only the beginning, a thin thread drawn from the tangle, but already she knew: whatever waited had the capacity to change everything. She watched the road unfurl and, almost without meaning to, reached for the postcard again.

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

Option A:

It begins almost shyly: a pale path threading the heath, a sandy ribbon softened by salt and years of feet. Either side, gorse rises in shaggy banks, a tangle of spines and saffron blossom; heather spills purple shade that seems to drink the light while the wind combs the grasses to a hush. Beyond, a sliver of sea glints between the shoulders of land, too bright to look at for long. The sky feels rinsed; gulls tilt and right themselves like dropped scraps of paper.

As the path bends, the smell shifts: coconut-sweet gorse, sap, then brine, sharp as a bitten lip. Bees stitch in and out of the furze, their drone homely against the far-off sigh of surf. A stonechat clicks from a thorn, quick as a watch. Sand creeps into your boot, grit finding the seam; rabbit pellets pepper the verge like spilled peppercorns. Bracken brushes your calves—little cautions that this place is not tame. Underfoot, mica winks and vanishes, tiny mirrors broken by your step.

Further along, the way climbs. Low granite humps appear, freckled with lichen; weathered posts lean at awkward angles, strung with a single, weary wire that sings when the wind presses. The stile creaks; the top bar has been rubbed smooth as bone. From here, the sea is a plane of pewter lit with white streaks; spindrift lifts and shreds itself, caught and flung, caught and flung. Air tastes of salt and metal. Skylarks hang and pour their chatter down, a silver rain; a kittiwake scolds from the cliff as though the whole world has interrupted it. In the lee of a boulder the wind drops; warmth pools and insects fizz.

Now the path narrows, shouldering past thrift, the sea-pink heads bobbing like tiny lanterns. There are traces of others: a dog’s paw, the oval of a boot, a child’s stack of shells gleaming like moons. Every turn offers a view and then withholds it; you walk a corridor, the silence interrupted by that patient, ceaseless shush. At last the heath gives way to the open—horizon, light, water. Behind, the route looks slender and deliberate; ahead, only the long breath of the sea.

Option B:

Dawn unstitched the night over the station, thread by pale thread. The departures board hiccupped; letters flipped like nervous wings. Coffee steamed against glass and the tannoy apologised without meaning it. Pigeons bobbed at freckles of gum. Somewhere, a suitcase rattled like cutlery in a drawer.

I pulled my rucksack closer. Inside: the letter with my name spelt a little wrong, a creased photo, three oat bars, a map stroked in stubborn yellow, the small brass key from under Gran’s clock. Everything I needed—or everything I dared to carry.

At home the hallway smelled of toast and damp paint. I left a note—Back for dinner—which might be true. Mum’s sleep was heavy, the TV blue against her face; I didn’t wake her. Outside, the street was milk-grey and quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hear your own decisions.

Now the coach flexed its doors like tired lips. People surged, then stalled. While the driver counted tickets, I counted breaths. Window seat: secured. The engine coughed awake; the town began to loosen around us, brick by brick, until the edges frayed into hedges.

As we rolled past the chip shop and the florist shuttered like eyelids, I rehearsed. Hello feels too small; sorry feels too late. I mouthed words like sweets I wasn’t sure I wanted. What if he doesn’t come? What if I don’t go in?

The road straightened; hedges ran with us; fields opened, flat and shy. Rain needled the glass, then gave up. A boy across the aisle drew dragons on his sleeve; an old woman peeled an orange, the air briefly bright with it. My palm came away damp from the window. My reflection lay over the lane—two roads at once, overlapping.

I was going to meet him at twelve: the man in the photo on a harbour wall, a gull tearing the sky behind him. The man Mum does not name. He’d written last month: If you want to. The envelope was thin, like it couldn’t hold such a sentence. Those four words slipped into my pocket and stayed there, a weight no one else could see.

This is a journey, I told myself, not a test; but journeys have questions too. By the time the road bends towards the sea and the air tastes of salt, something will tilt. I don’t know how, not yet.

But I know I won’t be the same person who left a note under a strawberry magnet.

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

Option A:

The path stitches the heath together, a pale ribbon through scrub and thorn. Sand and crushed shell shift underfoot. The air tastes of salt and something almost sweet, a hint of coconut from the gorse. Bees fuss in yellow bloom; the wind worries the heather until it shivers. Ahead, the sea glimmers between shoulders of land, a thin strip of moving silver.

The track narrows, then widens, like breath. Bracken leans in; a low fence hums and rattles. Stalks tickle my ankles, then sudden spikes scratch, so I lift my feet too high, a clumsy dance. A chorus travels with me: gulls crying, a skylark threading music, the dry click of seed pods. Texture piles on texture—grit, dry stems, small damp patches—and the faint crunch of old peat.

A lichen-blurred sign leans at the bend—Cliff Edge. It feels both warning and invitation. The path tilts, dips through a hollow of flattened heather, then rises toward light. Ahead, the sea is like steel, or maybe glass; white foam lifts and folds, lifts and folds, like a slow lung. I pass a gate on one hinge. It clanks; it complains.

Now the heath gives way to rock. Granite shoulders, rough and mottled, push out; I step onto a bluff where the wind presses both palms to my chest and clears my head. Spray freckles my skin. For a moment I simply look. The horizon seems endless; it almost takes my breath away. Behind me, the path winds back through gold and purple, a thin thread in wildness.

Option B:

Morning pulled itself over the town, thin as a sheet. I waited by the gate with a backpack that felt heavier than it should, like someone had sewn stones into the seams. The ticket in my pocket was warm from my hand. It seemed silly, a flimsy rectangle, but it was a key; it would let me out.

Inside, the house was already awake. The kettle clicked; something smelled like cinnamon; Mum moved quietly, pretending not to watch me. "You sure?" she asked, not quite meeting my eyes. I nodded. Words crowded my mouth and then drifted away. I didn't say I was scared. I didn't say I was excited. Both were true.

The bus stop was damp. The road still held last night's rain. A gull cried and the sound scraped the air. A red bus sighed up the hill, lights blinking. People gathered in a loose line - school kids, a man with paint on his jeans, an old woman holding a plastic bag like a secret. I climbed on, fed the ticket through the machine, and found a seat by the window. The glass breathed cold on my forehead.

As the town slid past - parade of closed shops, the field with its torn fence, the bridge with painted names - they felt like scenes saved in a jar. I had filled fifteen years with these corners; my feet knew every dip in this pavement. Now I was going to meet him: the father who had phoned last week, voice softer than I remembered, asking if I'd come. It should have been simple. Catch the bus, change at the station, take the train into the city. But the journey reached further than the map. It would stretch into the rooms we never talked about. When I came back, everything would be different.

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

Option A:

At first the path is just a pale strip through the scrub, loose sand pressed with old boot prints and the neat claws of a rabbit. Dry heather brushes my shins; gorse burns yellow even in thin sun, its scent faintly sweet, like coconut you can’t quite reach. Wind pushes from the sea, not angry, but steady, bringing a chill taste of salt.

Then it twists. It slips behind a hump of turf and reappears, as if shy. Pebbles crunch; brittle stems click underfoot. Bees fuss around the gorse. On both sides the land spreads low and wiry, patched with purple heather and rust-coloured grass, with the silver bones of a fallen fence.

Further on there is a wooden post, bleached and splintering—no words left on it, only an arrow scratched by somebody’s knife. I pause, listening: gulls yelp; somewhere deeper, the sea thunders, then draws back, then comes again. Back and back.

Now the path climbs a little, a stubborn ribbon; it pulls you towards a brighter strip where the sky opens. Marram grass flutters like thin flags and the air feels charged, almost metallic. I taste salt and something green.

At the crest the world widens. Rock and water meet in a band of moving white, the horizon a blunt line. Sunlight lays coins on the surface, cheap and glittering. Behind me, the heath whispers: tick, tick of insects; a gate tapping, a wire humming. I follow the path because it is simple: step after step, grit in my boots, wind on my cheek, the sea breathing in and out.

Option B:

Morning leaned on the bus-station glass, thin and grey, like it wanted to go back to bed. I sat on the cold bench with my ticket squeezed between finger and thumb. Change, that small word, clattered around my skull. The buses grumbled and sighed. I listened to the announcements, names of places I had never seen, and felt my heart thump like shoes on stairs.

I had packed the night before: three shirts, the red scarf that still smelled faintly of smoke, a cracked photograph of the pier at dusk. The house was too quiet; dust hung in the hall like slow snow. Mum said its only a bus ride, you’ll be fine, but her eyes were glassy and wet. I touched the dent in the doorframe where we measured my height. I tried to remember who I was when I was shorter.

The driver checked mirrors; the doors hissed; we lurched. The town slid past in slices—brown shops, the charity window with a headless mannequin, our street sign. The coach pulled away; the town didn’t wave. Diesel breath filled the air, warm and sour. A boy tapped his knee. My phone buzzed: don’t forget your coat. I typed back, I shouldn’t of come, then didn’t send it.

Why go? Because a letter with my name on it arrived; because a crack had opened and light was on the other side. The road unrolled ahead, long as a promise. I didn’t know it then, but everything was about to tilt.

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

Option A:

The path threads through wild coastal heath, narrow and sandy, bordered by gorse with bright yellow spikes of flower. Wind presses at my back, the air is sharp with salt. To the left, heather knots into purple patches; to the right the ground dips to a hollow where long grass shivers. Ahead, the sea is only a line of blue light, it blinks between the hills like an eye.

Further on, the gorse crowds the path; the bushes sit like small guards, stiff and prickly. Bees fuss in the flowers, a busy hum that rises and falls. My shoes crunch on grit, then slip on smooth sand, then crunch again. Grass hisses, gulls cry, the wind like a hand at my sleeve. The smell is strong: brine, and something sour-sweet, like crushed leaves.

At a bend I stop—just a moment—to look. The path snakes down toward the silver sea, a ribbon under the sky. Shadows fall long across the heath, shaddows overlapping like net. Every step feels delibrate but calm; this place seems old, patient. I touch a sprig of heather and it snaps, dry as paper. Then I walk again, following the curve toward the light.

Option B:

Morning wasn't special; it only felt strange. The sky hung pale; the pavements were wet, glimmering like fish scales. I zipped my scuffed backpack and checked the ticket again. Mum stood by the door, chewing the inside of her lip. "You'll be fine," she said, but her voice shook a tiny bit. The road outside unrolled like a grey ribbon toward the station. I told myself it was just a bus ride, a few stops, a new place. How hard could it be?

On the bus, the seats smelled of old rain. The engine grumbled; the windows steamed, so I drew a small face with my knuckle. My phone buzzed, but I turned it over like it might bite me. I was going to Aunt Lina's for a while because Mum's new hospital shifts were late—or because we both needed space. Outside, houses slid past, wobbling in the glass.

At the third stop, a girl with a faded red scarf climbed on. She smiled—a thin, careful smile—and the bus jerked. My bag tipped. A white envelope slipped out and skated under the seat; her boot caught it. "This yours?" she asked. I didn't know then that this journey would change everything.

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

Option A:

The path is thin and pale. It crawls through the heath like a small ribbon. Yellow gorse sits on both sides, bright and spiky. The wind pushes my hair and pulls at my coat.

I can smell salt and heather. The air taste sharp. Bees bump in the flowers, they sound busy and lost. The sand under my shoes is soft then rough, it keeps changing and my foot slides.

The sea shows ahead like a strip of steel. Gulls cry over the rocks, they turn and turn. The thorn on the gorse scratch my hand and I dont mind, it makes me feel awake. I walk forward and forward. Waves crash, hush, crash.

The path dips, then up, then down again. Grass bows low but the heath feels strong, it holds the wind back. I look at the sky and it looks back, grey and white. I want to reach the end soon

Option B:

Morning. The road was new and the sky was pale. The air was cold and my hands shake but I held the ticket tight.

At the kitchen table I packed my bag, slow and messy. I put in a shirt, a photo of Mum, the letter, my phone. It felt like putting my old life in a box. The bag was heavy like a stone, but my heart was heavier, it thud - thud.

The bus hissed and sighed at the corner like it was tired. I climbed on. The seat smelt like rain. The house looked like it was watching me go.

Me and Mum said goodbye already. I said I will, but my voice was thin. I ain't looking back, I said, even though I did, once.

This journey will change everything, I think. It sounds big, but its just me and wheels turning.

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

Option A:

The path goes through the wild heath. It is thin and sandy and it twist. Low bushes scratch my legs, yellow gorse, purple heather, they crowd the edge. The wind push at me and it is salty, salty and cold. I hear the sea ahead going shhh, shhh, like it is breathing. The grass bend back and forth. I walk slow and my shoes get grit and dust, it sticks. A gull cry and it make me look up, the sky is big and pale. I think about going home soon for tea then I forget and keep going, the path just keeps going

Option B:

Spring. The bus stop is cold and my bag is heavy. I hold the ticket hard in my hand, it is small and thin and it shake. Mum said it is only one ride but I knew it was big, like a door opening, like when the frost goes and the grass comes back. I breathe and it feels loud. I see yellow daffodils by the fence. My phone is low and I forgot the charger, I aint going back. I think about the house, my room, I wont be back. The bus comes slow, the doors hiss and I flinch. This journey change everything.