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 According to the narrator, which description best matches the sound of the boarding crowd?: A steady shuffle of bare feet – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the narrator, how does the crowd move and settle on the ship after boarding?: The crowd spreads across the deck and goes below into the ship in a silent, steady flow – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which action does the narrator explicitly say the crowd avoids while boarding the ship?: Speaking or looking back – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the narrator, how many gangways do the people use to board the ship?: Three – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 like water filling a cistern, like water flowing into crevices and crannies, like water rising silently even with the rim. Eight hundred men and women with faith and hopes, with affections and memories, they had collected there, coming from north and south and from the outskirts of the East, after treading the jungle paths, descending the rivers, coasting in praus along the shallows,

11 crossing in small canoes from island to island, passing through suffering, meeting strange sights, beset by strange fears, upheld by one desire. They came from solitary huts in the wilderness, from populous campongs, from villages by the sea. At the call of an idea they had left their forests, their clearings, the protection of their rulers, their prosperity, their poverty,

How does the writer use language here to describe the crowd and the journeys they have made? 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: The extended simile and anaphora—"like water filling a cistern", "like water flowing into crevices and crannies" (alliterative), "like water rising silently even with the rim"—together with the long participial listing—"treading the jungle paths, descending the rivers, coasting in praus along the shallows, crossing in small canoes"—shape the crowd as an inexorable, silent tide, with the flowing sentence form mirroring their continuous movement. At the same time, selective humanising and rhetorical contrasts—"Eight hundred men and women with faith and hopes, with affections and memories", the tricolon "from solitary huts... from populous campongs... from villages by the sea", the antithesis "their prosperity, their poverty", and the personified summons "At the call of an idea" with the unifying "one desire"—show diverse origins fused by a shared purpose despite hardship.

The writer opens with an extended simile and a semantic field of water to cast the crowd as a natural force: “like water filling a cistern… flowing into crevices… rising silently even with the rim.” The anaphora of “like water” and tricolon create inevitability, while sibilance in “rising silently” mimics hush. Concrete nouns “cistern” and “rim” suggest a vessel being steadily filled.

Moreover, the precise numeration “Eight hundred men and women” stresses scale, but the abstract nouns “faith and hopes… affections and memories” humanise them, resisting a faceless mass. The asyndetic, participial sequence “treading… descending… coasting… crossing,” and concrete travel lexis (“praus,” “small canoes”) convey arduous, continuous movement, while polysyndeton in “from north and south and from the outskirts of the East” widens the sweep.

Furthermore, the tricolon “passing through suffering, meeting strange sights, beset by strange fears” layers adversity; repetition of “strange” and soft sibilance intensify alienation. The metaphor “upheld by one desire” personifies purpose as a sustaining support, unifying disparate travellers. Likewise, the juxtapositions “solitary huts… populous campongs… villages by the sea” balance isolation and community, showing the crowd as a single, purposeful current.

Additionally, anaphora in “their forests, their clearings, the protection of their rulers, their prosperity, their poverty” foregrounds sacrifice across the social spectrum; the antithesis “prosperity”/“poverty” universalises motive. Finally, personification in “At the call of an idea” elevates an abstraction into a commanding voice, while cumulative, flowing syntax mirrors long journeys and the crowd’s steady, irresistible surge, so the reader senses both hardship and purpose.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The extended simile — like water filling a cistern, like water flowing into crevices and crannies, like water rising silently — presents the crowd as a steady, unstoppable swell, while the cumulative listing of journeys — treading the jungle paths, descending the rivers, coasting in praus — creates a flowing rhythm that suggests endurance and hardship. Parallel repetition in with faith and hopes, with affections and memories humanises them, and the contrasts from solitary huts to populous campongs, with the unifying upheld by one desire, show diverse origins but shared purpose; the long, continuous sentence mirrors their steady movement.

The writer uses an extended simile to present the crowd as a unified, unstoppable force: "like water filling a cistern... like water rising silently even with the rim." The repetition of "like" and the dynamic verbs "filling", "flowing", "rising" create a steady swell, while "silently" gives a reverent tone. The writer also humanises the mass through abstract nouns: "eight hundred men and women with faith and hopes, with affections and memories." The anaphora of "with" reminds the reader that each person carries a life behind them.

Furthermore, the journeys are conveyed through a cumulative list of present participles: "treading... descending... coasting... crossing... passing... meeting". This asyndetic listing builds pace and variety, suggesting relentless travel across rivers, shallows and islands. Phrases like "beset by strange fears" emphasise hardship, but "upheld by one desire" metaphorically shows a shared purpose binding them. Moreover, anaphora in "from solitary huts... from populous campongs, from villages by the sea" and polysyndeton in "from north and south and... the East" widen the scale. Additionally, the metaphor "At the call of an idea" suggests they are summoned by belief. The long, multi-clausal sentence mirrors their flowing, collective progress.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: Similes such as "like water filling a cistern" and "like water rising silently" make the crowd seem large and steady, moving together as one. The number "Eight hundred men and women", the long list of action verbs ("treading... descending... coasting... crossing") and repeated places ("from solitary huts... from populous campongs... from villages by the sea"), plus emotive words like "suffering" and "strange fears", suggest long, difficult journeys by many different people, united by "one desire".

The writer uses similes to describe the crowd. The phrase "like water filling a cistern... like water rising silently" compares the people to water, which helps the reader see them moving together. It suggests a steady, quiet but powerful gathering. Also, "Eight hundred men and women" shows a large crowd.

Furthermore, the writer uses a list of verbs to show the journeys: "treading the jungle paths, descending the rivers, coasting... crossing in small canoes". This suggests effort and distance. Phrases like "passing through suffering" and "strange fears" show danger, while "upheld by one desire" shows determination.

Additionally, repeating "from" shows they came from many places: "solitary huts... populous campongs... villages by the sea", so the crowd is mixed. The personification "At the call of an idea" makes the idea sound like a leader. The long, flowing sentence mirrors the movement. Thus the crowd and their journeys seem vivid.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses the simile like water filling a cistern and the number eight hundred men and women to show a large crowd quietly gathering. A list of journeys like treading the jungle paths, descending the rivers, and crossing in small canoes, plus words such as suffering and strange fears, show the journeys were hard, while upheld by one desire suggests they were determined.

The writer uses a simile “like water… like water” to describe the crowd. This makes them seem to flow together and fill the place. Moreover, the big number “Eight hundred” shows a large crowd. Furthermore, the list “treading the jungle paths, descending the rivers, coasting… crossing” shows the many journeys they made. This makes it sound long and difficult. Additionally, words like “suffering” and “fears” show pain and danger. The repetition of “from” shows they came from many places. There is alliteration in “crevices and crannies”, which sounds smooth. The long sentence mirrors steady movement.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Extended simile of water → depicts the crowd as an unstoppable, cohesive flow steadily filling the space → like water filling a cistern
• Alliterative detail → suggests their spread reaches every nook and feels natural and inevitable → crevices and crannies
• Precise number → quantifies the mass to give scale and weight to the gathering → Eight hundred
• Emotive noun phrases → humanise the mass by foregrounding inner lives and attachments → affections and memories
• Participial chain of movement verbs → creates breathless momentum and varied terrains of travel → treading the jungle paths
• Repetition of “strange” with hardships → conveys unfamiliarity and anxiety overcome during the journeys → strange fears
• Unifying abstract motivation → shows disparate travellers held together by a single purpose → one desire
• Range of origins via tricolon → contrasts isolation and community to stress diversity within the crowd → populous campongs
• Antithesis of conditions → includes all social extremes to suggest universality of the movement → their prosperity, their poverty
• Personified abstraction → an idea “calls,” elevating their journeys from necessity to chosen purpose → call of an idea

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace the whole-text progression from the dehumanising influx—anaphora and cumulative similes in They streamed and like water filling a cistern—through the ironic external gaze of the lighthouse in derision, to an oppressive, cyclical routine where repetition and antithesis—without a stir, without a ripple, without a wrinkle; viscous, stagnant, dead; from Every morning the sun to evening after evening—slow the pace and foreground futility, while spatial separation (isolated from the human cargo) and a muted soundscape (a low murmur of sad voices) culminate in days dropping as if falling into an abyss, deepening the melancholy.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create melancholy is by opening with cumulative anaphora that is immediately counterpointed by a dehumanising extended simile. The repeated “they streamed” builds a collective momentum, yet the dash precipitates a shift into “like water filling a cistern,” which dissolves individuality into an impersonal flow. This cumulative syntax and anaphora (“without a word, a murmur, or a look back”) impose inevitability; hopes and “affections and memories” are subsumed by an image of containment. The tonal descent from faith to faceless motion establishes a sorrowful undertow from the outset.

In addition, the writer engineers a marked shift in focus—from the crowded embarkation to a panoramic seascape—using spatial contrast and decelerated narrative pace to deepen melancholy. The sea and sky are rendered with tricolon and negative anaphora: “without a stir, without a ripple, without a wrinkle,” creating stasis. Motifs of erasure (“white ribbon of foam… vanished at once,” “phantom of a track”) turn progress into disappearance, while antithesis (“black ribbon”/“white ribbon”) underscores futility. This zooming out from human detail to an oppressive environment drains vitality and leaves a lingering, elegiac quiet.

A further structural strategy is iterative temporal patterning. The cyclical sweep of “Every morning… evening after evening” fixes the ship in a ritual loop; days “disappearing… as if falling into an abyss” convert linear travel into attrition. Spatial segregation (“the five whites… isolated,” a “faint hum… alone revealed the presence”) heightens detachment, so that by the final sentence—“The nights descended on her like a benediction”—the passage resolves in a subdued cadence, offering only nocturnal solace and sealing the melancholy arc.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how melancholy builds through structural progression: from the massed, impersonal opening—"They streamed", "like water"—to separation and isolation ("The five whites", "a low murmur of sad voices"), then a widened, cyclical journey where the sun "emerged", "caught up", "glided past" over a sea "viscous, stagnant, dead", so the days feel "as if falling into an abyss" and the nights "like a benediction".

One way in which the writer structures the passage to create melancholy is a shift in focus and pace from crowded movement to stillness. The opening builds with cumulative listing and an extended simile ('they streamed aboard... like water filling a cistern'), organising the crowd as a single flow. At sea, the description slows and repeated negatives ('without a stir... ripple... wrinkle') halt momentum, so early hope drains into heavy melancholy.

In addition, chronological sequencing creates a cyclical pattern that deepens sadness. Temporal markers ('Every morning... at noon... evening after evening') impose an inescapable routine. Days 'disappearing one by one... into an abyss' suggest time falling away behind the ship. This patterned progression makes the journey feel endless and futile, intensifying melancholy.

A further structural feature is contrast and perspective shifts. The narrative moves from the mass of pilgrims to insert 'the five whites... isolated', and from the Arab’s prayer to a lighthouse 'winking... in derision'. By juxtaposing devotion with indifference, the writer alienates the travellers from officers and environment. Finally, 'The nights descended... like a benediction' acts as a coda, offering brief relief which, by contrast, reinforces melancholy.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer begins with repetition and similes to show a relentless, impersonal boarding (they streamed in, like water filling a cistern, without a word, a murmur, or a look back), then shifts to the voyage where bleak description and a cyclical pattern (viscous, stagnant, dead; Every morning the sun ... emerged ... caught up ... sank) deepen the sadness. By the end, the ship feels isolated (lonely, a low murmur of sad voices) and the closing line (The nights descended on her like a benediction) gives a quiet, heavy finish.

One way in which the writer has structured the opening to create melancholy is by beginning with the whole crowd. The repetition of “they streamed” and the long list make the movement feel slow and inevitable, like water. This opening focus sets a heavy, sad mood.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts to single figures, like the German skipper and the Arab leader, and then to the ship’s route in order. This change of focus and step-by-step sequence (“headed… crossed… ranged”) slows the pace and makes the journey feel weary.

A further structural feature at the end is the repetition of time. The time references “every morning… at noon… evening” and “the days… disappearing one by one” show routine and loss. The contrast with the final nights “like a benediction” leaves a quiet, wistful feeling, so the melancholy deepens as time passes.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The text starts with the crowd boarding, repeating they streamed in and comparing them to like water filling a cistern, which simply sets a sad, heavy mood. Then it follows the voyage in a repetitive way from Every morning to evening after evening, the sea stagnant, dead, and only a low murmur of sad voices, so the structure makes the melancholy feel ongoing and lonely.

One way the writer structures the text to create melancholy is by repetition and listing at the start. “They streamed” and “like water” are repeated, making it feel endless and tired, which sets a sad mood.

In addition, the focus moves from the people to the ship and sea. Long sentences about the sky and “without a ripple” slow the pace, so the journey feels still and lifeless.

A further structural feature is time order. “Every morning the sun...” shows days repeating, and the “sad voices” stay. The final line about night gives a quiet ending, which makes it more sad.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening anaphora and massed motion establish impersonal inevitability and muted sorrow as individuality blurs (they streamed aboard)
• Extended simile chain reduces people to a silent, engulfing element, creating a subdued, contained sadness (like water)
• Cumulative journey listing and parallel verbs build the weight of hardship, deepening the somber mood (passing through suffering)
• Repeated abandonments crescendo to ancestral rupture, intensifying the sense of irrevocable loss (graves of their fathers)
• Panoramic cross-section of ages frames shared vulnerability and foreclosed futures, heightening pathos (without hope of return)
• Abrupt inserted dialogue shifts tone to contempt; dehumanisation darkens the atmosphere (dese cattle)
• Focus narrows to ritual amid indifferent mechanics, isolating fragile faith within vast motion (prayer of travellers)
• Ironically personified lighthouse offers external mockery, structurally undercutting purpose and hope (in derision)
• Macro expansion to sea/sky and repetitive stillness slows pace into lifeless stasis, sustaining gloom (viscous, stagnant, dead)
• Iterative day–night cycle renders time monotonous and abyssal; days vanish into irretrievability (falling into an abyss)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, the description of the sea as ‘stagnant, dead’ makes the journey feel unnatural and threatening. The writer suggests that even nature itself is hostile to the pilgrims’ voyage.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the hostility of nature during the journey
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey the hostility of nature
• 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, arguing that the writer personifies a malign environment: the sky is 'scorching and unclouded' and 'oppressed the heart,' the sea 'viscous, stagnant, dead,' and the sun 'pouring the concentrated fire of his rays on the pious purposes of the men' beneath a 'heaven without pity,' its pursuit 'as if keeping pace' and 'preserving the same distance' to suggest inescapable hostility. It would qualify this by highlighting the contrast in 'The nights descended on her like a benediction' and the ship 'held on her steadfast way,' acknowledging brief respite and human resilience that complicate a wholly hostile reading.

I agree to a large extent that the “stagnant, dead” sea makes the journey feel unnatural and threatening, and that the writer positions nature as hostile to the pilgrims’ progress. From the outset, the deceptively “serene sky” is immediately undercut by “scorching and unclouded,” and the “fulgor of sunshine” is personified as a tyrant that “killed all thought, oppressed the heart, withered all impulses of strength and energy.” This violent tricolon of verbs renders the environment actively aggressive. Even the oxymoronic “sinister splendour” fuses beauty with menace, signalling a world that glitters while it harms.

The sea itself is figured as unnaturally inert. Although “blue and profound,” it remains “still, without a stir, without a ripple, without a wrinkle”—an anaphoric tricolon whose measured repetition enacts oppressive stasis. The escalation to “viscous, stagnant, dead” draws on a semantic field of decay, making the ocean feel embalmed rather than alive. Against this lifeless vastness, the Patna’s presence is fragile: the sibilant “slight hiss” hints at stealth or danger, while the “black ribbon of smoke” and the “white ribbon of foam that vanished at once” suggest traces that are instantly effaced. The doubled “phantom”—“phantom of a track” made by the “phantom of a steamer”—casts the voyage as spectral and insubstantial, as if nature refuses to acknowledge or retain their passage.

Moreover, the sun is anthropomorphised as a relentless sentinel: “keeping pace,” it “caught up,” “glided past,” and “preserv[ed] the same distance,” a cyclical pattern that traps the pilgrims in a cosmic pursuit. Its rays “pour[ed]… concentrated fire… on the pious purposes of the men,” a bitter irony that subverts the expectation of divine favour; instead of blessing, their pilgrimage is branded. Structurally, time itself seems devoured: “days, still, hot, heavy” are “disappearing… as if falling into an abyss for ever open in the wake,” an abyssal metaphor that makes the sea a maw consuming their lives. The ship is “lonely… black and smouldering in a luminous immensity,” “scorched… from a heaven without pity”—religious lexis and simile that invert sanctity, casting “heaven” as unmerciful. Even the “white roof” of awnings isolates the “human cargo,” and the “faint hum… low murmur of sad voices” provides subdued auditory imagery of collective suffering beneath the “great blaze of the ocean.”

However, the final line—“The nights descended on her like a benediction”—offers a brief counterpoint, a nocturnal reprieve. Yet that single blessing only heightens the diurnal oppression. Overall, through oxymoron, tricolon, spectral imagery, and relentless personification, the writer makes the sea’s eerily motionless surface deeply threatening and presents nature as an unpitying force set against the pilgrims’ voyage.

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, showing how the writer uses personification and stark imagery—oppressed the heart, sinister splendour, viscous, stagnant, dead, a heaven without pity—to present nature as hostile and the journey unnatural, while also noting the contrasting respite of nights like a benediction.

I largely agree that the writer makes the journey feel unnatural and threatening, suggesting nature’s hostility to the pilgrims. From the outset the sea and sky are presented as oppressive. Although the sky is “serene,” it is also “scorching and unclouded,” an oxymoron developed into violent imagery: the “fulgor of sunshine… killed all thought, oppressed the heart, withered all impulses.” This personification makes the elements feel actively antagonistic to human life.

Most strongly, the sea itself seems unnaturally dead. The tricolon with anaphora “without a stir, without a ripple, without a wrinkle” stresses absolute stasis, while adjectives like “viscous, stagnant, dead” give the water an unnatural, almost diseased quality. The ship’s trail “vanished at once, like the phantom of a track… by the phantom of a steamer”: the simile and ghostly imagery suggest a lifeless world that refuses human presence. Even the visual contrasts of “black ribbon of smoke” and “white ribbon of foam” highlight how quickly the sea erases them, implying indifference or quiet menace.

The sun’s personified routine intensifies this threat. It “keeps pace,” then “pours… concentrated fire… on the pious purposes of the men,” which hints that nature is specifically hostile to the pilgrims’ faith. The semantic field of heat and blaze (“great blaze of the ocean,” “black and smouldering”) and the judgmental metaphor “a heaven without pity” frame the elements as pitiless judges. Structurally, the cyclical listing of the day—“every morning… at noon… evening after evening”—and the image of days “falling into an abyss” create a relentless, inescapable pressure that wears down the “low murmur of sad voices.”

However, the final line, “The nights descended on her like a benediction,” complicates the claim: by night, nature offers relief. Overall, I agree to a great extent. The writer’s personification, oxymoron, and bleak imagery make the passage’s stillness feel unnatural and threatening, presenting a predominantly hostile natural world, softened only by fleeting nocturnal mercy.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Shows some agreement that nature is hostile to the pilgrims, selecting obvious details like "stagnant, dead", "without a ripple" and "heaven without pity" to argue the sea feels unnatural and threatening. Offers simple method comments (e.g., "concentrated fire" and "as if scorched" for oppressive imagery/personification) with limited explanation.

I mostly agree with the statement. Calling the sea ‘stagnant, dead’ makes the journey feel unnatural and threatening. The writer often personifies nature as hostile to the pilgrims, though the final line gives a small sense of relief.

At the start of the section, the sky is ‘scorching and unclouded’ with a ‘fulgor of sunshine that killed all thought, oppressed the heart, withered all impulses’. These violent verbs personify the weather. The phrase ‘sinister splendour’ shows a beautiful but dangerous scene, making the voyage feel unsafe. The sea ‘remained still... viscous, stagnant, dead’ and the repetition of ‘without’ creates an eerie, unnatural calm.

Later, the ship leaves only ‘a white ribbon of foam that vanished at once, like the phantom of a track... by the phantom of a steamer’. This simile and ghostly metaphor make the journey feel unreal and threatening. The sun is also personified, ‘keeping pace’ and ‘pouring the concentrated fire of his rays on the pious purposes of the men’, which suggests nature is against the pilgrims’ faith. The ship seems ‘scorched... from a heaven without pity’, a phrase that presents a hostile nature. Structurally, the list ‘still, hot, heavy’ and the image of days ‘falling into an abyss’ add to the oppressive mood.

However, the final sentence, ‘The nights descended on her like a benediction’, offers a peaceful contrast. Overall, I agree to a great extent that nature is shown as hostile and the sea makes the voyage feel unnatural, with only brief relief at night.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree. The sea is called stagnant, dead and without a ripple, and words like phantom and a heaven without pity make nature seem hostile and the journey threatening.

I mostly agree with the statement. Calling the sea “stagnant, dead” makes the journey seem wrong and dangerous, as if nature is against the pilgrims.

The writer uses strong adjectives and personification to show this. The sky is “scorching and unclouded” and it “killed all thought” and “oppressed the heart.” Under this “sinister splendour” the sea stays “without a ripple… viscous, stagnant, dead.” This makes it feel unnatural, like the water should move but doesn’t, so the voyage seems unsafe.

There are also simple similes and images to add threat. The ship leaves a “phantom of a track” on a “lifeless sea,” which sounds ghost-like. The sun pours “concentrated fire” on their “pious purposes,” and the ship is “scorched by a flame… from a heaven without pity.” This personifies the sky as cruel, so even nature feels hostile to the pilgrimage. The “low murmur of sad voices” and days “falling into an abyss” also suggest fear and hardship on board.

However, the nights are “like a benediction,” which shows a small moment of comfort. Overall, I agree to a large extent that the descriptions make the journey feel unnatural and threatening, and that nature seems hostile to the pilgrims’ voyage.

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:

• Oxymoron of beauty and menace makes nature’s splendour feel threatening, unsettling confidence in the voyage — sinister splendour
• Semantic field of stasis/decay renders the sea unnatural and menacing, as if life itself has withdrawn — viscous, stagnant, dead
• Personification of a merciless cosmos invites the judgment that nature is actively hostile to their purpose — heaven without pity
• Mocking lighthouse imagery suggests the wider seascape derides the pilgrims’ mission, deepening the sense of opposition — errand of faith
• The sun’s relentless tracking feels predatory and oppressive, intensifying dread as the day “pursues” the ship — caught up with her
• Erased traces imply the sea’s annihilating indifference, diminishing human effort to nothing — phantom of a track
• Sound and scale reduce human presence to vulnerability, the crowd subdued by the environment’s vastness — low murmur of sad voices
• Heat and glare besiege the vessel, framing it as overpowered within an overwhelming expanse — luminous immensity
• Tricolon of negations creates eerie, unnatural calm that reads as ominous threat rather than peace — without a ripple
• A final contrast tempers the claim: night brings mercy, suggesting the hostility is not absolute — like a benediction

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Your school's PE department is creating the programme for the end-of-term sports awards and would like student creative pieces to feature alongside the results.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a rowing club practice on a cold morning from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a comeback after injury.

(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:

Dawn unzips the river with a thin seam of pallid light. Each reed is furred with frost; every breath turns visible, a small white admission. The water lies slate-still, obstinate, as if a sheet of pewter has been hammered flat by night. Somewhere a gull coughs. Who, at this hour, owns the river? The rowing club does—its doors yawning wide, rectangles of amber falling onto the glassy ramp.

Inside, bodies move with sleep-heavy precision, shoulders braced beneath the long, lacquered shell. The boat is fragile and heavy at once; it sighs when lifted, riggers knocking a metallic heartbeat against doorframes. “Heads!” someone calls, and the syllable steams into the cold. Hands are pink and practical. Metal bites; skin flinches; nobody complains. A coach stamps warmth into his feet and cradles a thermos, eyes narrowed as if the river is an equation to be solved.

Already, the choreography begins: “Up an inch—walk it out—stern first.” Boot soles rasp on grit. The ramp is a thin, slick tongue; it tastes of algae and iron. The shell—eight meters of narrow intention—slips onto the water and shivers, then settles. “Hands on—roll it, roll it.” Oarlocks click shut like teeth. Blades rest, feathery and obedient, bright squares in the blue.

They climb in, in order, a modest ballet of knees and elbows; the hull tilts a warning, rights itself. Breath clouds, then drifts away. The coxswain’s woollen hat is crowned by a bobble; his voice is not—sharp, clean, carried on the cold. “Bows pair only. From backstops. Ready… go.” A pause; a hush; then a delicate bite at the catch as the blades are squared and dropped, circles flowering on the surface and collapsing just as quickly.

By the bridge, the rhythm finds them. Slide—drive. Slide—drive. Slide—drive. Seat wheels sing a thin, reliable song along their tracks; feet push into stretchers; bodies hinge and gather like a flock turning in the air. The river’s skin scuffs under the oars, a bright, silvery bruise that fades as it forms. “All eight—build to twenty-two,” says the cox, and the voices of the crew fold into the boat’s single thought. Length, then power. Long, then strong.

Meanwhile, on the towpath, the coach keeps pace, breath misting, bicycle tires whispering over frost. He carries his words like tools: “Bow, sharpen. Three, sit up. Don’t chase the slide; let it come to you.” The commands strike and sink. A heron lifts—lazy, disdainful—and the boat threads the gap it leaves behind. Arms burn in a bright, bitter way; fingers numb, then remember; the cold climbs sleeves like a polite but insistent guest.

The world is reduced to elements: the sweet-plastic smell of blade stickers; diesel faint from a distant launch; the industrial taste of winter air. Shoulders stack; spines stack; time stacks—stroke on stroke on stroke. Not for spectacle; not even for winning; for that concealed arithmetic of timing and trust. The urge to stop—the refusal—the next stroke.

Beyond the second bend, the mist thins into ribbons. Houses wake. A curtain lifts. “Wind it down—eighteens—paddling.” Pressure melts; wash subsides; the hull whispers instead of hisses. They drift past their earlier breath-clouds, now gone, and aim their bows for home. The ramp returns, the boathouse gapes, the day opens its hands.

They lift the shell again—lighter now, or perhaps they are—and carry it into the shadowed warmth. Frost crackles underfoot; laughter emerges, thin but real. On the river, the line they drew is already erased, except for the memory of it: a straight, clean signature written across the morning and then folded up by the cold.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour of returns; the track held its breath beneath a sky still bruised with night. Mist slunk across the lanes, silvering the numbers, and a lone blackbird sawed at the morning while the stadium—empty, expectant—listened.

Maya loosened the wrap around her left knee; the scar that stitched her leg looked less angry now, a faint river laid over skin. She pressed two fingers there, not to hurt but to remember—what was broken, what had been rebuilt. Velcro rasped. Laces tessellated between her fingers. The rubber reeked of newness; the cold bit through her hoodie; the metal spikes chimed faintly as she knocked them—once, twice—against the track.

Fourteen months earlier the sound had been small, almost polite: a wet pop. Not fireworks; not catastrophe; a thing you could nearly ignore until the ground tilted and your body answered with a howl. She had fallen sideways; the track slid away like a rug; the stadium's shout hiccuped into silence. After that came winter inside a summer: ice, crutches, braces; corridors bright with antiseptic; the endless arithmetic of rehab—ten repetitions, three sets, hold for thirty, rest for sixty. Again. Again. Again.

Now the numbers were different. Lane 4 glared cobalt beneath her; the white lines were rules she had learned to honour and to bend. Her coach stood by the rail, cap pulled low, mouth a straight line that she had learned meant belief. Her physio's voice, thinned by distance, threaded the morning: 'Trust the knee. Trust the work.' Meanwhile, doubts, persistent as gnats, whined—what if it went again; what if she had borrowed more courage than she could repay?

She lowered herself into the blocks, every movement deliberate, ceremonial. Fingers splayed on the roughened surface; toes snug against the steel; hips hinged like a door just before it swings. Her breath was a small machine, regular, insistently present. She found the posture that had been taken from her and slowly restored: head down, eyes on the track's glittering grit, spine like a tight bow. The start official raised an arm; a gull scissored the air; somewhere, a kettle clicked; ordinary life continued.

Set.

The world narrowed to the geometry of angles and seconds. In that sliver she remembered small victories that had not made headlines—the first unassisted step; the day the wobble steadied. She remembered losses too: the championship watched from her sofa, applause collapsing into laptop static. Nevertheless, she pressed. Weight kissed the knee; a bright sting sparked and faded. Not disaster: data. Not fear: fuel. She drove her right foot, then her left; the blocks kicked back, the track accepted her, and, blade by blade, the field beyond her lane began to unroll.

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

Option A:

The river lies flat as beaten pewter, a cold ribbon pinned between reed-brittle banks. Mist hangs in cautious folds above the surface; even the boathouse seems to hold its breath as the door yawns and clatters back. Our breath ghosts the air—thin, quick, white—and the metallic sting of dawn slips under cuffs and collars, finding wrists, finding necks. Somewhere a gull scribbles a wavering V across the pale sky. Quiet. Cold, clean, unsentimental.

“Shoulders—up.” The call travels along the line and we become a moving scaffold, the eight lifted high, ribs and riggers glinting with a skin of frost. The pontoon is treacherous with ice; the first foot tests it, then commits, heel squeaking. A blade knocks; a soft apology; the hollow clap of a gate shutting tight. Oars lean like tall flags in a parade as we shuffle, careful, rehearsed. The boat dips, then settles—slim, skeletal, impatient.

“Hands on… roll it.” The hull kisses the river, a thin, shy sound. We lower ourselves into its narrow spine, slides complaining, footplates accepting the weight. Fingers redden around rough handles; the smell is river and grease and damp rope. The cox clears a throat—small noises in big air—and we push off into a slow, polite drift.

The first stroke is a negotiation. Water takes the blade with a soft bite; the shell hesitates, then believes. Catch—drive—release—feather; catch—drive—release—feather; catch—drive—release—feather. The rhythm appears like something remembered rather than learned. The cold fractures into ribbons as we move, flung up in silvery shards that vanish as they fall. “Length at the front; sit tall. On the legs—now.” Seats whisper on tracks; riggers hum; the river peels away from us in translucent sheets. We do not talk. We breathe, we count, we lean, we finish.

By the island, the coach ghosts alongside on a bicycle, a fluorescent bee in the frost, calling numbers we half-hear and wholly obey: “Rate twenty-six—patience—hold the knees.” Time stretches thin here; it’s only the metronome of effort, the small burn widening in the thighs, the polish of a catch that wasn’t quite square. We move as if stitched by one invisible thread, but a late wrist snags the seam; the shell flinches; the boat tells on us. We correct. A swan lifts ahead, a pale shrug of wings. The banks slide by—hedge, bungalow, dog, a smear of woodsmoke—unimportant. Inside the boat: discipline, repetition, devotion. It feels, sometimes, like music, and sometimes like a stubborn machine.

When the sun finally thinks about it, the pewter becomes quicksilver. Ice unclenches from reeds; the mist loosens. We cool down, rate low, hands buzzing, backs warm under wet layers. The pontoon receives us with the same brief kiss. The shell comes up—light but suddenly heavy—and we walk it in, leaving only a wake that knits itself tidily behind us. In the boathouse there is steam from flasks, small laughter that steams too, and the uncomplicated pride of work done. Outside, the river smooths its face. Our effort dissolves into it—almost nothing to see—yet something remains, an ache that is clean, a promise to return when the frost returns.

Option B:

Evening. Floodlights bloom; the pitch, slick as glass, glows an artificial emerald. In the tunnel, I stand with my studs nibbling at concrete and my number cold against my shoulder blades. The air is salted with liniment and hot-dog smoke; nerves and nostalgia braid until I cannot tell which one is tighter.

It had begun with a sound no one else heard: a neat, private pop, then the implosion of certainty. My knee went slack, a treacherous hinge, and the ground rushed up like an impatient friend. After that came antiseptic months—ice, metronomic beeps; elastic bands trembling in my fists; mirrors reflecting a thinner, cautious me. I learned the vocabulary of patience: eccentric loading. I learned the discipline of small victories: three extra degrees of bend. Outside, seasons did their rounds, but inside the clinic window time crawled.

Now the brace is gone, but its memory prints a careful caution along my stride. I lace, unlace, lace again—tying courage tighter; I run my thumb along the pale seam that travels my knee like a river on an old map. “You’re ready,” the physio had said. I believed her, mostly. The captain thumps my back; my lungs take a rehearsal breath. Overhead, the lights thrum.

The gaffer’s nod is the last permission I need; we spill from the tunnel into brightness. Noise rises in a warm wave. Fibres vibrate—hamstrings, calves, even the bruised part of my pride—as the whistle readies to slice the air. What if it happens again? The question pads along beside me, soft-footed and insistent. I answer it without words: by leaning into the first run; by trusting the rebuilt lattice of ligament and will.

Kick-off. The ball arrives at my feet with a kiss; muscle memory lifts its head and remembers. I turn, not sharply, but enough—hips like doors on oiled hinges—and the old ache that lives in the joint is there, but distant, like weather out at sea. A defender closes; I nudge the ball past him—one touch, then two—and the knee holds. My breath punches out; somewhere, someone shouts my name. I do not grin yet, so I run: down the wing; into space; through the residue of fear.

I am not the athlete I was, clean and unmarked; I am altered, annotated, carrying a line of history under my skin—but as the grass lifts to meet me and the stadium finds its voice, I am, incontrovertibly, back.

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

Option A:

The morning was thin and sharp, the kind of cold that makes air taste metallic. Frost seamed the grass by the boathouse and the river lay obedient and flat, a sheet you could fold if you dared. A pale yolk of sun edged over warehouses; light skimmed the surface. Steam curled from mouths and mugs. Oars lay on the racks like long, sleeping limbs.

They shouldered the eight together, boots squeaking on wet boards. Riggers ticked against sleeves. "Hands on—up—walk," the cox called, her voice tidy and bright. There was a clatter and a hush as the hull met the water; for a heartbeat nothing moved but the current, then it did.

At first, strokes were reluctant, square blades tapping the river like fingers testing bathwater. Slides whispered; seats answered with a small rattle. Knuckles whitened; breath grated; eyes watered. Catch, drive, finish, feather: again. Slowly they found it, the rhythm that threads eight bodies into one—backs leaning, legs loading, wrists neat. The boat began to hum; little whirlpools spun away like coins of light.

Meanwhile the coach cycled the towpath, tyres crunching frost; his breath made a private cloud. "Steady twenty at rate twenty-four," he tossed across the water. A gull heckled. On the far bank, a dog barked at the procession as if it was a rival animal, long and slightly unreal. Cold ate through gloves—fingers burned; warmth climbed from thighs and shoulders.

They lengthened. The cox snapped: "Power ten from bow!" and the boat lifted, light and urgent. Oars carved crescents; the hull slipped clean between rushes and brick. The river, suddenly awake, offered shadows and that secret tug under bridges; the city lifted its shutters. They were tired, they kept going.

Then, as quickly, it eased. Paddles only. Voices returned in small pieces—some laughter, a cough, the clink of pins. They spun at the bend, awkward and practised, and drifted to the landing stage. Boots on timber again; a few numb smiles. Steam rose; the smooth water sewed itself back together, as if forgetting them.

Option B:

Autumn. The season of return; of boots thawed from the back of cupboards, of pitches marked again with white chalk that glows like frost. A time when the trees loosen their grip and, in the same breath, people find theirs.

As the floodlights blinked awake, Aiden fastened the brace around his right knee. The strap scratched against the edge of his palm; the Velcro rasped like a tiny storm. He flexed, cautiously, feeling the banded tug where the surgeon’s neat thread had become a pale seam across his skin. "Listen to the pain, not the fear," his physio had said—like a mantra he could lace into his boots. He mouthed it, barely, as if saying it too loud might break it.

The memory pressed in with the smell of deep heat and damp turf. A crack, more felt than heard; a falling, sudden as the lights going out. Faces leaning over him, more sky than eyes. Siren. Ceiling tiles marching above him, their little perforations like a map he couldn't read. He had measured time then by the bottle of tablets and the slow, dogged count of stairs at home.

Now the pitch stretched in strips, dark and bright, as teammates jogged the perimeters, chatter bouncing off the stands. He tested a step, then another: the ground answering back, springy, slightly unforgiving. His breath held itself; then it remembered the rhythm. He moved into a shuffle, then a jog—awkward at first, as if the leg belonged to someone older and careful. Yet even caution has a pulse.

"Good," Coach called, pragmatic as ever. "Don’t chase it. Let it come back to you." The whistle twitched against his wrist; a gull heckled; a ball thudded against the advertising hoardings with a hollow, comic note. Small sounds that, together, stitched courage.

Aiden increased his stride. Not much. Enough to feel the wind thread through his shirt and the knee warm, obedient. The fear sat with him, but it didn’t steer. He wasn’t sprinting; not yet. He was returning, inch by patient inch, like tide fingering its way back over sand that remembers every footstep. And that was, at last, enough to start.

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

Option A:

The river breathes a thin skin of mist, stitched by the first pale light. The bank is stiff with frost: grass glittering, planks of the landing stage glazed and hard. Gravel crunches under boots while someone coughs into cold air like needles. A long, narrow shell is eased out at shoulder height, its paint clean and delicate against the grey. Hands, gloved and slightly numb, find the riggers and balance. Damp rope and mud smell brackish; it clings and wakes you.

We lower the boat to the water with a small splash that ripples the mist. Breath hangs like steam above us; it twists away. The cox's voice, sharp and exact, cuts the chill: "Hands on. Ready." Oars slide out and seat into rowlocks with a clack; blades lie like dark spoons on the surface. Then, quietly at first: "Go." The first strokes feel heavy; shoulders protest and wrists sting, but the river accepts us and the hull whispers forward.

Rhythm builds, a cadence we can trust. Backs swing, arms draw, legs drive in a simple order that is somehow complicated to keep. Pull and glide, pull and glide; slide, catch, finish. The wake unravels, a white stitch behind. The cox calls rates like a metronome - twenty-four, twenty-eight - and the clicks and ticks make their own music. Dawn lifts above the warehouses; windows pale and the water turns blue-grey. We warm from the inside, and the ache becomes something steady, almost satisfying.

Mist thins. By the far bend, a heron lifts, and the river seems to watch us. We feather and breathe as steam rises from our backs. When we turn and paddle home, the shore looks nearer than it felt. Boots thump the wet boards; flasks appear. Tea tastes of tin and comfort. The cold still sits in our throats, but our faces are bright, and the rhythm lingers: pull and glide.

Option B:

Dawn clung to the stadium like a cool sheet, pale light pooling in the lanes. Amira stood in lane three, her fingers grazing the chalked line, the sweet rubber smell of the track mixing with the sharp scent of menthol from her warm-up cream. The floodlights blinked awake, as if the place was stretching. Her knee, strapped with careful tape, felt like a stubborn hinge. She bounced on the balls of her feet, laces double-knotted, breath steady, heart making an impatient rhythm in her chest. The track curled around her like a red ribbon, and for a moment it seemed to be waiting too.

Six months earlier, the day had folded in half with a noise she still heard at night: a crack, bright and wrong, and then grass in her mouth. The ambulance doors shut; the ceiling lights at the hospital marched past like slow stars. “Torn ligament,” the doctor had said, gentle but definite. “You’ll come back, but we go careful.” After that came the routine—tedious, necessary, relentless: ice, bands, tiny lifts, slow bends, steps that looked silly until they didn’t. Time moved like mud; she learned patience. She watched other people race and felt both proud and hollow, as if someone had borrowed her name and run off with it.

Now the cold air kissed her skin. Coach Aaron stood near the cones, a shadow with a stopwatch. “Just to forty,” he said. “Smooth. No heroics.” Fear perched on her shoulder like a small, insistent bird, but so did something else—stubbornness, maybe, or the memory of flying.

She tipped forward and the world narrowed to line and breath. First step: careful, testing, like stepping onto thin ice. Second step: stronger. The knee murmured, not a shout, and she listened but didn’t obey. Arms balanced, feet skimming, she counted under her breath—one, two, three, four—until the numbers became a rhythm, a small drum.

At forty metres she eased down, chest burning and eyes brighter than before. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t flawless. But it was movement; it was hers. As she turned back, the track didn’t seem so long. This was not the end—this was beginning again.

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

Option A:

The river lies dull-silver under a thin skin of morning; it looks calm, but cold. On the landing stage, boots scrape and bump, breath hanging like little ghosts. The boat - long and bony - slides from the rack and noses the water. Oarlocks click, metal on metal; hands fumble with straps, fingerless gloves don't quite help. Cold air stings; it pricks the cheeks and sneaks inside collars. The river is quiet, it holds its breath.

At first the strokes are messy, splashes jumping up like startled fish. Then the rhythm finds them. One sound is constant: the cox's voice, sharp and clean. "Sit tall... ready... attention." Seats whisper on tracks; riggers hum; water hisses under the hull. Legs, body, arms; arms, body, legs. In, out, in, out. Shoulders lift like slow metronomes. The crew become a row of dark shapes, synchronised backs under navy hoodies. Thin blades bite and feather, turning like coins, then lay flat; the boat answers by sliding further, smoother.

Meanwhile the banks wear sugar-frost; reeds bow their dry heads, a dog barks and vanishes in mist. The bridge above coughs with a train. Hands ache; forearms burn; they breath clouds with each push but keep the beat the cox sets - ten hard on the legs, twenty steady, "Lengthen, lengthen." Cold creeps up sleeves and down spines; it is stubborn. Still the hull cuts a clean line across the river - straight as a promise. This is ordinary dicipline and a small kind of glory, steam rising from shoulders as the pale sun finally lifts.

Option B:

Morning. Not the loud, gold kind, but thin and pale, crawling over the empty track. The stadium breathed slowly; seats cold, track a dull ribbon waiting. I sat on the bench and laced my shoes, fingers clumsy, knee scar prickling under tape. The smell of rubber, grass, and that sharp, clean tang from the physio room followed me out like a shadow. I felt as shaky as a new foal, but I stood anyway.

Before. The snap was like a twig underfoot, a short crack and then a rush of silence. The crowd faded. The pain was bright, almost bright enough to blind. Hospital lights, white and hard. Weeks became a ruler I moved along millimetre by millimetre. Bands, stretches, ice. The physio had one rule: do not rush. He counted; my breath counted back. Again. Again. Again. I learned to trust my leg in the kitchen first, then on the stairs, then on the grass behind our block.

Now the lane lines pointed forward. Coach’s whistle slept in his pocket; he let me choose. I placed my toes on the mark. My heart seemed too big for my chest. What if it goes again? What if I’m only a memory of speed. I pull in air, slow. The first step is small, polite. The second is not. My knee complains, a low growl, but it holds. Arms, knees, breath—together. I am not fast, not yet; but I am moving, and the track begins to remember me. I do too.

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

Option A:

The river looks like glass under a pale morning sky. Mist clings to the bank like torn cotton, and frost bites the grass. Their breath hangs, small clouds, as the boathouse door groans. At first the crew shuffle, shoulders lifted against the cold, hats dragged low. The coach clears his throat; the whistle is thin. The long shell slides to the edge; it shivers, then steadies. The river holds its breath, the bow nudges out.

Then, at the cox's call—'Ready... row!'—they tip forward together. Oarlocks click, blades bite, water hisses. They move: in, out, in, out. Shoulders lean; backs swing; heels push. The cold nips fingers, but heat starts in their arms, a slow ache. The launch hums, the coach in a woolly hat with a megaphone; his voice skims the flat river: 'Legs, body, arms!' Damp leaves smell sweet and muddy; diesel mixes with it.

Meanwhile the sun tries to climb, a thin coin in cloud. The boat cuts a white stitch; the banks are quiet, a gull crying. Faces shine, steam lifting like smoke. Concentration sits on them. Finally the cox snaps, 'Easy there—let it run.' Silence. Drops tap the hull: drip, drip. For a moment the river wakes and the cold rushes back.

Option B:

Autumn. Wet grass clung to my boots. The cold bit my fingers through the gloves. The white line was a scar across the field, and the goal yawned at the far end.

Before, I ran without thinking. Before, I turned fast and laughed when I slipped. Then the tackle came, a crunch, my ankle twisting; my world tilted. The hospital lights were too bright. The cast was heavy like a block of winter. Weeks turned into months, with crutches knocking like drums. Physio was a routine: bands, steps, ice, repeat. Every day I stared at the swollen joint and told it, heal.

Now I was back. Coach tied the tape tighter around my ankle and said, “You’re ready.” Am I? What if it goes again? My heart thudded, like a ball smashing a bin. The lads slapped my back and the noise from the touchline grew. My determination had to be louder. I stretched; I breathed; I listened to the whistle start to rise.

When it blew, I moved. Not fast yet, but honest. The pain didn’t shout, it whispered. I took my first touch and the ball was a friend I’d missed. A defender came near and I lifted my head.

One step. Another. I didn’t break. I began.

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

Option A:

The morning is cold. The river is flat and grey and still. Steam comes from our mouths like white smoke. At the rowing club the dock is slippery and hard, boots scrape and people stamp.

We lift the boat; it feels heavy and kind of sad. Oars in, we push off and the blades dip and lift, dip lift dip lift, the boat slides forward the water makes a small hiss and a slap and my hands sting and the coach shouts from the bank, “Keep it long, keep it clean,” his bike clicks beside us.

My breath hurts my chest. My legs shake. Frost is on the rails, it looks like sugar on a plate. The sky is pale, the sun is not warm. We count, one two three four, together, together. Wind on my face like pins. I think about stopping but I don’t. We go again, down the slide, drive, breathe, again...

Option B:

Morning. A start again. The field is wet with cold grass and the air is sharp. My knee has a long scar and the bandage rubs my skin. I breathe in and it smells like mud and clean.

I tie my boots, the laces feel tight, my hands shake like a baby deer. Coach call my name and waves. He says, ready? I nod but I ain't, I ain't ready, but I go anyway.

Back from the bench - back from the cruches. I remember the fall, the dark room, the slow days. I used to run fast. I used to fly.

Its not the same.

Now I walk, then jog. The whistle blows, my heart jumps!

The ball is still, like it waits for me. I touch my knee and whisper, I can, I can. I take the first step, it hurts, it hurts but I am here, I am back.

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

Option A:

The morning is cold and the river is grey, flat like glass. We get the boat out and our breath is like smoke that hangs, my hands go numb and the oar is hard and wet, the seat slide squeaks and bumps. The coach shouts from the bank keep time keep time and the oars splash splash in the water, we was early and the sun don't come up yet, the sky is pale and my arms ache. A dog runs on the path and barks I think about hot tea at home, the blade get stuck once and we wobble we go again.

Option B:

Morning. I pull on my boots, the laces feel wrong and my leg is stiff. Last month I fell and the crack was loud, they said no more running for a while. I waited and counted days, watched the team on TV, it hurt. My phone buzzes about homework. Today I go back to the pitch, the grass looks wet and cold, like it dont want me. Coach says just jog, I say yeah, but my heart is banging and my knee kind of shakes. I start slow like a baby deer, I think of the bus home and the noise from the stands that isnt there.