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 Who puffed slowly through?: Clifford – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the narrator, what kind of route is the riding?: A very old thoroughfare across country – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the narrator, how is the riding that Connie and Clifford enter described?: An old thoroughfare across country – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which description best matches the route Connie and Clifford enter after Connie opens the woodgate?: A broad path rising between hazel thickets – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 26 to 40 of the source:

26 place inviolate, shut off from the world. The chair chuffed slowly up the incline, rocking and jolting on the frozen

31 clods. And suddenly, on the left, came a clearing where there was nothing but a ravel of dead bracken, a thin and spindly sapling leaning here and there, big sawn stumps, showing their tops and their

36 grasping roots, lifeless. And patches of blackness where the woodmen had burned the brushwood and rubbish. This was one of the places that Sir Geoffrey had cut during the war for

How does the writer use language here to create a bleak picture of the clearing and its effect on the wood? 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 abrupt opening And suddenly and the absolute negative nothing but a ravel of dead bracken create shock and emptiness, while a semantic field of injury and sibilant alliteration in thin and spindly sapling and big sawn stumps renders the clearing maimed and brittle. Personification and war-tinged diction deepen the bleakness: grasping roots, lifeless suggests desperate remains, and had cut during the war recasts the human impact as violence on nature; the asyndetic listing and the minor sentence And patches of blackness intensify the sense of a scorched, violated landscape.

The writer establishes bleakness through contrast and harsh sound. The wood is first a “place inviolate, shut off from the world”, suggesting sanctuary, but the chair “chuffed slowly up the incline”: onomatopoeia and the adverb “slowly” make the movement laboured and mechanical. Kinesthetic verbs “rocking” and “jolting” render the approach uncomfortable, while the pre-modified noun phrase “frozen clods” makes the ground hard and lifeless. This auditory and tactile imagery signals the loss of that protected state.

Moreover, a semantic field of death and damage constructs the clearing as desolate. “Nothing but a ravel of dead bracken” uses “ravel” to suggest a knotted disorder, while “dead” bluntly signals decay. The “thin and spindly sapling” feels malnourished, implying the wood’s future is stunted. Most strikingly, “big sawn stumps” foreground industrial violence; the exposed “tops and their grasping roots, lifeless” personify the roots as desperate hands before the post-modifier “lifeless” cancels hope. This creates an image of amputation: trees severed, the wood reduced to remains.

Furthermore, syntax and colour imagery intensify the bleakness. The anaphoric “And suddenly... And patches of blackness...” and asyndetic listing accumulate damage piece by piece, while the limiter “nothing but” empties the scene of vitality. The abstract noun “blackness” and the verb “burned” suggest charred scars, and harsh plosives in “burned the brushwood and rubbish” echo brutality, reducing living matter to “rubbish”. Finally, the war lexeme “cut during the war” frames the clearing as a battlefield wound, leaving the wood violated and scarred.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer creates bleakness through negative imagery and personification: adjectives like "dead bracken" and "thin and spindly" and the phrase "grasping roots, lifeless" suggest weakness and death, while colour and violent verbs—"patches of blackness", "burned", "cut"—show human damage to the wood. Structurally, the abrupt "And suddenly" and the list after "nothing but" (including "big sawn stumps") build an overwhelming desolation, reinforced by harsh movement and sound in "chuffed slowly", "rocking and jolting" on "frozen clods".

The writer uses contrasting adjectives and verbs to establish a bleak mood. The wood is first described as a “place inviolate, shut off from the world,” but this purity is disrupted when “the chair chuffed slowly,” “rocking and jolting on the frozen clods.” The kinaesthetic verbs “rocking and jolting” and the adjective “frozen” create a harsh, cold setting that prepares us for desolation.

Moreover, a semantic field of death and damage paints the clearing. The phrase “nothing but a ravel of dead bracken” reduces life to tangled waste, while the “thin and spindly sapling” suggests weakness. The noun phrase “big sawn stumps” and the verb “burned” indicate violent, human intervention, and “patches of blackness” connote scorched scars. Personification in “grasping roots, lifeless” makes the roots seem to clutch at the soil, then undercuts that struggle with “lifeless,” intensifying hopelessness.

Additionally, sentence forms and listing build the bleakness. The cumulative list, joined by commas and repeated “And,” builds a relentless, monotonous rhythm and piles up ruin. The minor sentence “And patches of blackness” isolates the damage, making it stark. Finally, “cut during the war” invokes warfare, so the wood feels violated like a battlefield, emphasising the clearing’s brutal effect on nature.

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 words and images like “dead”, “lifeless”, “thin and spindly”, and “patches of blackness” where things were “burned” to show the clearing is ruined and bleak. Simple techniques such as personification in “grasping roots” and the long list starting “nothing but a ravel of dead bracken... thin and spindly sapling... big sawn stumps” emphasise emptiness and damage to the wood.

The writer uses bleak adjectives and nouns to show emptiness, for example ‘nothing but a ravel of dead bracken’ and a ‘thin and spindly sapling’. Words like ‘dead’ and ‘lifeless’ create a sense that the clearing has no energy, so the wood feels ruined.

Furthermore, personification in ‘grasping roots’ makes the stumps seem like hands, but then the word ‘lifeless’ takes away any hope. The ‘big sawn stumps’ and the colour imagery of ‘patches of blackness’ where the woodmen ‘burned’ the brushwood suggest the wood has been cut and scorched, making it look scarred.

Additionally, the verbs and sentence structure add to the bleak mood. ‘Chuffed slowly’, ‘rocking and jolting’ on ‘frozen clods’ sound harsh, and the repeated ‘And’ starts a list of damage, which feels relentless. The phrase ‘shut off from the world’ shows isolation, deepening the bleak picture.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses negative words like "dead bracken", "lifeless" and "blackness", and the phrase "nothing but", to show the clearing is bleak and empty. Verbs like "rocking and jolting" and images of "sawn stumps" and "grasping roots" make the wood seem harsh and damaged.

The writer uses negative adjectives like “dead” and “lifeless” to make the clearing seem bleak. The noun phrase “sawn stumps” and “rubbish” shows the wood has been cut and damaged. Moreover, the personification “grasping roots” makes the place feel creepy, as if the ground is clutching, which adds to the dead mood. Furthermore, verbs like “rocking and jolting” and “chuffed” show a rough, harsh setting. Additionally, the list “dead bracken… spindly sapling… sawn stumps” and the short line “And patches of blackness” make it sound ruined.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Juxtaposition of former sanctity with present damage → intensifies the sense that the clearing violates a once-protected space → (place inviolate)
• Aural/tactile movement across harsh ground → the rough journey foreshadows an unforgiving, comfortless scene → (frozen clods)
• Sudden shift in viewpoint → the abrupt arrival makes the clearing feel like a jarring intrusion → (And suddenly)
• Limiting phrase to stress absence → the bareness feels total, leaving only desolation → (nothing but)
• Lexical field of decay → the vegetation reads as tangled and lifeless, deepening bleakness → (dead bracken)
• Weak, diminutive description of growth → suggests a sickly, diminished woodland struggling to recover → (thin and spindly)
• Personification of remains with cutting imagery → mutilated roots seem to clutch at life yet are declared dead → (grasping roots)
• Dark colour imagery in a minor sentence → isolated charred patches read as stark scars on the landscape → (patches of blackness)
• Human agency and wartime context → assigns responsibility and shows lasting, purposeful exploitation of the wood → (during the war)

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 poignancy?

You could write about:

• how poignancy deepens by the end of 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 the focus from secluded stillness to ruptured modernity, following the ascent ("chair chuffed slowly up the incline") and temporal layering ("old, old thoroughfare", wartime "trench timber") to a structural pivot at the "denuded and strangely forlorn" clearing—a "breach in the pure seclusion" where the "eleven-o'clock hooters" undercut "the heart of England". It would also note the shift into dialogue and halted journey ("would not risk the long and very jolty downslope") culminating in a "sad pause" and "Yes, for a little while", which crystallise the poignancy of trying to keep the wood "inviolate" against "the new England".

One way the writer structures the passage to create poignancy is through layered temporal framing and juxtaposition. The opening establishes a pastoral present (“Connie opened the woodgate”) before an analeptic swell to “the great forest where Robin Hood hunted,” then contracts to the diminished “private wood.” This oscillation between mythic past and reduced present is intensified by the quiet inventory of absence: “no pheasants. They had been killed off during the war.” The steady, measured pacing and the repetition of “old, old thoroughfare” build an elegiac cadence, so that loss accumulates structurally as the focus moves from landscape to its erasures.

In addition, the writer engineers a pivot in focus marked by the adverb “suddenly,” zooming to the scarred clearing: “ravel of dead bracken… sawn stumps… patches of blackness.” This catalogic enumeration slows the pace and makes the damage inescapable. From this visual close-up, the vantage widens to the “colliery railway, and the new works,” a breach that “let in the world.” The selective focalisation—“But she didn’t tell Clifford”—withholds Connie’s response, injecting intimate pathos alongside public loss. Clifford’s reactive resolve (“He was having it replanted”) reads structurally as a futile counter-movement, deepening the sense of irrecoverability.

A further device is the deceleration into a contemplative pause at the hilltop, where dialogue counterpoints description. Clifford’s claim—“the heart of England”—is immediately undercut by diegetic intrusion: the “eleven-o’clock hooters.” The tonal shift intertwines national elegy (“The place remembered”) with private deprivation (“I mind more, not having a son”). Ellipsis (“I want this wood perfect … untouched”) and the inserted “sad pause” soften the cadence, so that the terminal placement of Connie’s concession—“Yes, for a little while”—operates as a diminished cadence, foreshadowing transience and making the poignancy most acute at the close.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how the writer structures the passage to move from nostalgic description of the old, old thoroughfare and Clifford’s wish to keep the wood inviolate to the jolt of the clearing denuded and strangely forlorn, where the colliery railway and the eleven-o'clock hooters let in the world, interrupting the idyll to create poignancy. It would also note the shift into dialogue and confession—from the idealised heart of England to I mind more, not having a son,—ending on a sad pause and Yes, for a little while, which deepens the sense of fragile loss by the end.

One way the writer structures poignancy is through a slow, linear movement. The opening exposition lingers on the wood as "a remnant" of "the great forest", and the chair "chuffed slowly", setting a meditative pace. The focus then narrows from the ride to a clearing, "denuded and strangely forlorn" with "lifeless" stumps, which contrasts with earlier stillness and foregrounds loss. The temporal reference "during the war" embeds backstory, so the absence — "no pheasants", "killed off" — feels inflicted.

In addition, the writer uses juxtaposition to intensify pathos. After Clifford idealises this as "the heart of England", the narrative widens to the intrusive outside: "the colliery railway" and the eleven-o'clock "hooters". This shift in focus — from pastoral image to industrial sound — punctures the idyll ("It let in the world") and deepens the sense of loss.

A further structural choice is the shift into dialogue and a slower pace at the end. The close viewpoint on Clifford’s possessive love is undercut by his admission — "I mind more, not having a son" — and the pause: "There was a sad pause." The short utterance, "Yes, for a little while," works as a closing line, leaving a provisional, fragile resolution.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts with a calm, old wood ('motionless', 'old, old') then moves to a damaged clearing ('denuded', 'lifeless'), so the contrast builds sadness. By the end, the dialogue about 'the heart of England', the intrusive 'eleven-o'clock hooters', and the 'sad pause' make the poignancy stronger as the mood shifts to quiet regret.

One way the writer structures the text to create a sense of poignancy is by beginning with a slow description of the wood and its past. References to "Robin Hood" and an "old, old thoroughfare" set a nostalgic tone and hint at loss.

In addition, the focus shifts to damage. The clearing is "denuded and strangely forlorn", then we glimpse the "colliery railway" and hear the "eleven-o'clock hooters". Connie hears this; Clifford doesn’t. This contrast with the old wood breaks the calm and makes it sad. The time marker "during the war" deepens the mood.

A further feature is the move into dialogue and the ending. The perspective stays on Connie and Clifford, and the chair stopping shows limits. Short sentences like "There was a certain pathos." and the "sad pause" before "Yes, for a little while" make the final lines even more poignant.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer describes the wood as "old, old" and "motionless", but later shows loss like "denuded and strangely forlorn". By the end, the dialogue and the "sad pause" make the mood more poignant.

One way the writer structures the text to create poignancy is the opening focus on the setting and loss. The contrast between old forest and war damage ('no pheasants', 'denuded') makes a sad mood.

In addition, the text shifts to dialogue, changing the focus from description to feelings. Clifford calls it 'the heart of England', but the hooters cut in, which breaks the mood and adds a sad tone.

A further structural feature is the ending. Final short line and the 'sad pause' slow the pace, and Connie's 'Yes, for a little while' makes the poignancy deepen at the end.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening quietude of setting establishes fragile calm that primes later sorrow (In the wood everything was motionless)
• Early contrast inserts war’s aftermath, undercutting pastoral security with absence and loss (killed off during the war)
• A sudden shift in focus to a ravaged clearing acts as a structural jolt, revealing devastation (And suddenly)
• The new vista out to industry breaches seclusion, widening scope from sanctuary to encroaching modernity (It let in the world)
• Withheld disclosure from Connie to Clifford builds quiet, private pathos and emotional distance (But she didn't tell Clifford)
• Pause at the crest invites nostalgic projection of a chivalric past, heightening the gap with the present (knights riding and ladies)
• Dialogue asserting timelessness is cross-cut by intrusive industrial sound, weakening the ideal and deepening poignancy (eleven-o'clock hooters)
• Temporal layering shifts into collective memory, imbuing the place with elegiac resonance (The place remembered)
• Structural pivot from landscape to legacy via confession personalizes the loss and stakes (not having a son)
• Final hedged assent diminishes certainty, closing on impermanence and a subdued sorrow (for a little while)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 71 to the end.

In this part of the source, Clifford sees himself as a powerful protector of 'old England'. The writer suggests this is just a fantasy by making him seem deaf to the sounds of the modern, industrial world all around him.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Clifford's desire to protect 'old England'
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray Clifford's ideas as a fantasy
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, showing how the writer ironizes Clifford’s protector pose over 'old England' by juxtaposing his possessive vows—'I intend to keep it intact,' 'I want this wood perfect ... untouched,' 'we...must preserve it'—with industrial and narrative checks. It would track Connie hearing 'the eleven-o'clock hooters' while he is 'too used to the sound to notice,' her scepticism ('Must one?', 'for a little while'), and the narrator’s poignancy ('There was a certain pathos,' wartime 'had given it a blow') to argue his authority is nostalgic fantasy rather than real power.

I largely agree: the writer constructs Clifford as a self-anointed guardian of “old England,” but steadily exposes this as an elegiac fantasy, chiefly by counterpointing his grand claims with intrusive industrial sound and by narratorial signals of pathos and decline.

From the outset Clifford’s self-image is cast in the elevated, preservative lexis of heritage: “the heart of England,” “the old England,” which he will “keep… intact.” The deictic certainty of “this” wood and the deontic modality of “intend” and “must preserve” project him as a powerful protector. Yet the ellipsis in “I want this wood perfect … untouched” betrays hesitation and idealisation; it reads less like power than wish-fulfilment. The seasonal and light imagery—“dim February sunshine,” the “pale sun”—operates as muted pathetic fallacy, suggesting a waning world rather than a robust realm he can command.

Against this, the modern world intrudes sonically: Connie hears the “eleven-o’clock hooters at Stacks Gate colliery,” while Clifford is “too used to the sound to notice.” This auditory imagery, placed immediately after his assertion, is a sharp juxtaposition that renders him figuratively deaf. The adverbial clause “too used” implies desensitisation and a privileged insulation from the industrial reality that his estates depend on. Structurally, Connie becomes the reader’s barometer: her clipped assent—“Oh yes!”—and the gently ironised interrogative “Must one?” puncture Clifford’s rhetoric. Her questioning modality destabilises his absolute “must,” turning his credo into a debate he is unwilling to hear.

The narrator’s explicit intrusion—“There was a certain pathos”—guides us to see his posture as pitiable. Pastoral imagery evokes a residual, not present, enchantment: the wood “still had some of the mystery,” and “The place remembered, still remembered.” The anaphoric “still” wavers between stasis and dwindling remnant. Polysyndetic listing—“deer, and archers, and monks”—conjures a medieval pageant that belongs to memory, not management. Even the wood bears scars: “Sir Geoffrey’s cuttings during the war had given it a blow.” The personification of injury exposes the hypocrisy of a lineage that both exploits and claims to preserve. Clifford’s lineage anxiety—“I mind more, not having a son”—further reframes “preservation” as dynastic possession; Connie’s gentle corrective, “the wood is older than your family,” pricks that hubris. Finally, her valedictory “Yes, for a little while” imposes a temporal limit that decisively undercuts his fantasy of permanence.

Overall, the writer invites us to see Clifford’s protector-role as largely delusional: authoritative in tone, but undermined by sound, memory, and history. Yet the wood’s “mystery” and “birds” that “flitted… safely” keep a tender residue, so his desire is not wholly baseless—merely nostalgic, and already slipping out of time.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree, explaining that the writer contrasts Clifford’s ideal of "old England" and vow "I intend to keep it intact" with the intrusive "eleven-o'clock hooters" he is "too used to the sound to notice", framing his protector role as nostalgic fantasy while still acknowledging "a certain pathos" and Connie’s caution "Yes, for a little while".

I largely agree that Clifford casts himself as a powerful guardian of “old England,” and that the writer exposes this as a comforting fantasy by contrasting his romantic vision with the intrusive realities of modern industry he ignores.

At first, Clifford’s self-image is grand and assured. His declaratives—“I consider this is really the heart of England” and “I intend to keep it intact”—project authority, while the idealising diction “perfect … untouched” frames him as a protector. The passage even drifts into a medieval daydream of “knights riding and ladies on palfreys,” signalling his nostalgic fantasy. However, the writer undercuts this with sharp auditory contrast: Connie hears “the eleven-o’clock hooters at Stacks Gate colliery,” but “Clifford was too used to the sound to notice.” This juxtaposition, and the industrial sound imagery he is effectively deaf to, suggest his power is illusory: the “new England” asserts itself whether he acknowledges it or not.

Nature imagery does momentarily support the myth of permanence—“the mystery of wild, old England,” “crinkly, innumerable twigs,” and “grey, obstinate trunks” personify the wood as resistant and remembering (“The place remembered”). Yet this is swiftly punctured by the violent metaphor that Sir Geoffrey’s wartime “cuttings … had given it a blow,” implicating Clifford’s own class in the damage. Dialogue structure further challenges his claim. Connie’s gentle but incisive correction—“the wood is older than your family”—and her skeptical question, “Must one?”, destabilise his paternalistic “we who have this kind of property … must preserve it” (the italics stressing his insistence). The narrative intrusions—“There was a certain pathos” and “There was a sad pause”—guide our response towards pity rather than power. Even his aside, “I mind more, not having a son,” reveals dynastic anxiety more than stewardship.

Overall, the writer suggests Clifford’s protector-role is largely a fantasy: he cannot hear the colliery, cannot undo the war’s “blow,” and, as Connie concedes, can preserve it only “for a little while.” Still, the reverent personification of the wood implies there is something worth loving, which explains—though does not validate—his delusion.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would broadly agree that the writer presents Clifford as a protector of "old England" using simple quotes like "I intend to keep it intact" and "must preserve", and would give a basic example of how this seems unrealistic by noting Connie hears the "eleven-o'clock hooters" while "Clifford was too used to the sound to notice".

I mostly agree with the statement. Clifford talks like a powerful guardian of “old England”, but the writer shows this is wishful thinking because he ignores the modern world around him.

At the start of this section, Clifford claims the wood is “the heart of England” and says, “I intend to keep it intact.” His dialogue makes him sound confident and in control. The “knights...palfreys” imagery and his wish for the wood “perfect ... untouched” create a nostalgic picture, so he sees himself as a protector of a past age.

However, the writer undercuts this with contrast and sound. Connie hears “the eleven-o'clock hooters at Stacks Gate colliery”, but “Clifford was too used to the sound to notice.” The industrial noise intrudes, and his failure to hear it shows he is deaf to modern England. The narrative voice also judges him: “There was a certain pathos.” That word gives a sad tone, hinting his idea is unrealistic. The wood is already harmed: “Sir Geoffrey’s cuttings during the war had given it a blow.” Even the personification, “The place remembered,” suggests only memories remain.

Finally, Connie’s replies challenge him. She asks, “Must one?” and ends, “Yes, for a little while.” The dialogue and the pause show his plan can only work temporarily.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Clifford wants to protect tradition, and we feel some sympathy, but the writer shows it is mainly a fantasy in an industrial world he refuses to hear.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree. He sees himself protecting "old England", saying "I intend to keep it intact" and wanting "nobody to trespass in it", but the writer makes it seem like a fantasy when the "eleven-o'clock hooters" sound and "Clifford was too used to the sound to notice".

I mostly agree with the statement. Clifford clearly sees himself as a strong protector of “old England”. He says “this is the old England… and I intend to keep it intact,” which shows his pride. The writer uses old imagery like “knights riding and ladies on palfreys,” and later “deer, and archers, and monks,” to make the place seem old and special.

But the writer also shows this is a bit of a fantasy. Connie hears the “eleven-o’clock hooters at Stacks Gate colliery,” but “Clifford was too used to the sound to notice.” This sound detail makes him seem deaf to modern, industrial world. He wants the wood “perfect… untouched,” yet we are told Sir Geoffrey’s wartime “cuttings… had given it a blow,” so the wood is already damaged. The text says “There was a certain pathos,” which suggests sadness about his idea.

There is also personification: “The place remembered,” like the past is only a memory. In the dialogue, Clifford says “we… must preserve it,” but Connie answers, “Yes, for a little while,” which makes him seem less powerful. Overall, I agree that Clifford thinks he is protecting England, but the writer shows it is mostly a dream.

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:

• Declarative self-appointment as guardian projects a powerful protector persona, but it feels self-asserted rather than earned (I intend to keep it intact)
• Idealised medieval imagery romanticises the past into a nostalgic fantasy more than a workable reality (ladies on palfreys)
• Juxtaposition of Connie hearing industry while Clifford does not frames him as figuratively deaf to modernity (too used to the sound)
• The visible industrial landscape intrudes on his idyll, undermining his talk of keeping the place perfect (colliery railway)
• War-scoured clearing shows the wood already violated, challenging his wish for it to be inviolate (denuded and strangely forlorn)
• Narrative acknowledgement of feeling invites sympathy, complicating a total dismissal of his ideal as mere fantasy (a certain pathos)
• His caution and dependence in the landscape undercut the image of a “powerful protector,” implying limited agency (would not risk the long)
• Dialogue rebuts his proprietorial claim, weakening the legitimacy of his self-appointed stewardship (older than your family)
• Practical action to restore the wood partially supports his protector role, though it is reactive and limited (having it replanted)
• Personification of landscape memory flatters his vision yet suggests the past survives mainly as recollection, not policy (The place remembered)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Your local amateur theatre is collecting creative writing for the programme of its next mystery play.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a theatre prop room, filled with strange and interesting objects from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a prop that goes missing.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

The door sighs on its hinges and the prop room inhales: a cavern of make-believe, air speckled with patient dust. Dust frets the air; a lace of motes turns the bulb into a small sun, haloing shelves that lean like tired balconies. It smells of mothballs and old velvet, of glue-slick paint and greasepaint warmed by hands—all the breath and sweat of other stories steeped into the timber.

Here, cardboard boxes squat in teetering columns, their tape furred with age; their slanted labels negotiate memory: Snow (clean); Sabres—blunt; Moonlight, spare; Thunder sheet. On one lid a scrawl pleads, Return after Act II. Someone has drawn a tiny crown above the word crown, a joke that has become archaeology.

Beyond this, a congregation of oddities arrays itself. A top hat, dulled to a patina, still coughs paper doves; a glass jar holds a storm the size of a fist—its captive lightning fidgets over the lid. A marionette with a chipped cupid's bow smiles past its tangle of strings; beside it, a velvet mask with downturned feathers looks permanently bereaved. There is a crown of tin stars (each one punched and soldered), a suit of scaled armour that shivers when the corridor door slams, a violin bow that drinks light and remembers thunder. A painted door leans in the corner; peer through its keyhole and meet darkness, deep as a stage wing.

Textures speak first. The sabre's hilt gives a solemn chill; sugar glass, amber and treacherous, sticks to the skin with a cloying kiss; the velvet's nap has been thumbed thin at the edges, a confession of nerves. Rope, salted with resin, leaves prickles on the palm. When the cracked gramophone is wound, a thin aria etches itself into the dust—so fragile it tastes of attic. And always, a susurrus of not-quite voices rehearsing lines they once held.

At shoulder height, mannequins marshal in an uneasy parade. One wears half a face—powdered cheek, unfinished mouth—and a soldier's coat too broad in the shoulders; one offers a kid glove to the air as if expecting a partner. A mirror, freckled with time, returns you not to yourself but to a stranger with braver eyes. It is theatrical and a little ridiculous; yet under powder and paint there is a pulse, a promise that, dressed and lit, any of this can become true enough.

Meanwhile, beyond the wall, a rehearsal coughs and settles; a line breaks, reforms. Inside, the props wait. When the door snicks shut, the storm quietens, the hat stills, the marionette holds its breath—as if the room knows its cue. In the moment before the bulb is pinched dark, dust lifts and turns; it looks—just for a beat—like confetti in a sudden, private ovation.

Option B:

Curtain. The ritual before the leap: dust motes spun in the spotlights like shaken snow; the orchestra’s warm-up murmured through the velvet; the stage, vast and black, waited—poised—for breath to change into story. Backstage smelt of paint and polish, of hot metal and old wood; gaffer tape x’s stitched the floor like quiet warnings. It was, as always, the minute when everything balanced: a coin quivering on its edge.

Evie ran her palm along the props table, the laminated inventory glinting under a clamp lamp. The outlines were pencil-tidy: teacup (Act I), pistol (unloaded), letter sealed in red wax, ivory fan, false mustaches in a neat row. She checked, ticked, breathed. She had rehearsed this choreography until it was a kind of religion. Handkerchief—check. Glass decanter—check. Pocket watch—

She stopped. Empty space. The chalk silhouette of a small oval stared back at her, accusatory. The watch—Lord Ashbury’s watch, the fulcrum of Act Three, the cue for the confession and the curtain—had gone walkabout.

“Fifteen minutes, please. Fifteen.” The stage manager’s voice flowed through the tannoy with unruffled calm, a lullaby for chaos.

Evie’s heart did the opposite of calm. Of all props, why this? Without that watch, lines would unravel, blocking would tangle; the scene hinged upon its click-click opening, that tiny, theatrical heartbeat. She glanced at the prompt copy (worryingly annotated), and the lines seemed to swim. Where had she last handled it? Noon, after the fight call, when the understudy borrowed it “just to feel the weight.” Then the director had swooped in, then the producer, then—always then—someone had laughed and someone had cried and the day had rushed away like water under a stage trap.

She retraced, feet whispering over the painted deck. Past the ropes coiled like sleeping snakes; past rails laden with costumes breathing out mothball and perfume; past the flyman in his tower, a quiet god among pulleys. “Dev,” she hissed. “Seen the Ashbury?” He shook his head, his hands dusty with hemp. Ruby, the dresser, narrowed her eyes, conspiratorial. “Try Jasper’s dressing room. He likes to rehearse with everything.” Of course he did.

“Ten minutes, please.” The call clipped the air.

Jasper’s mirror was a sun of bulbs, his reflection all cheekbones and confidence, mascara wand paused mid-stroke. “Evie! Come to wish me broken legs?” She mustered a smile that felt stapled on. “Your pocket watch—have you…” He tutted, theatrically. “Darling, I returned it. Wouldn’t keep the show hostage.” His words were candy; his tone, a tease. Even so, his hands were empty.

Back in the wings, the auditorium breathed beyond the proscenium: a susurration of programmes, a throat cleared, the soft cough of a child impatient to be thrilled. Time, infuriatingly literal, was slipping. Could she substitute? A phone was forbidden; the production was Victorian. A bracelet? A locket? Nothing would click. Nothing had that obliging, inevitable sound.

“Five minutes, beginners to the stage. Beginners.” The tannoy softened the order with politeness, but the sentence marched.

Evie scanned again, slower, as if reading a language she had only just learned. The tape outlines were unquestionable. Under the table, only scuffed plywood; behind the crate, only a broom. The watch’s chain—a thin length of gilt—lay forgotten, a glitter-strand that went nowhere. For a second, ridiculous and human, she wanted to cry. Instead, she swallowed, and her jaw locked into purpose.

Then, a glint where it shouldn’t be: far upstage, in the penumbra by the grand drape, something small winked. Impossible—who would leave it there? She took one step, then another, the boards murmuring beneath her shoes. The house lights dimmed in a slow exhale. She reached for the shine—

“Places, please.” And the curtain breathed in.

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

Option A:

The door resists with a sigh, then yields, and the room exhales a slow drift of dust, a pale weather of old stories. Light leans in through the high window; it catches the motes and gilds them like tiny actors frozen mid-bow. That smell—glue, warm paint, damp velvet, a thread of mothballs—settles on the tongue; somewhere a rope creaks. Someone has chalked a date on the wall; the numbers are blurred by fingerprints. Everything here seems to hold its breath, like a chorus waiting for the conductor’s hand to rise; waiting, waiting.

The shelves are deep and serious, shouldering weight and memory: a papier-mâché moon pockmarked and faintly luminous; a rubber trout with silver rubbed away by comic slaps; a chandelier missing one tear-shaped crystal, its absence more dramatic than any drop. A tin crown sits cool as a reprimand; a wooden sword, notched from make-believe fights, is soft with thumb-shine; a teapot painted with roses tilts its spout as if to gossip.

Fabrics spill from crates in coloured avalanches, whispering when touched. A velvet cape the colour of dried cherries collapses over a headless mannequin; sequins cling in constellations, stubborn stars. There is a plague doctor’s beak, its lacquer crazed with age, and a pair of gloves turned grey where real hands insisted. A cracked mirror reflects you in plural (as if the room won’t choose one); wigs on stands doze like well-groomed animals.

Time behaves strangely here. A brass clock ticks backwards, as if unlearning, while a thunder sheet leans upright—a corrugated promise—and the rain box waits, heavy with shot. Coils of rope sleep in loose nests, smelling of hemp and stage-sweat; in a cracked violin case, one string gives a small note that hangs—a thread that will not break. A wind machine crouches under the bench, its wooden vanes politely still.

It is a museum of make-believe, and yet not quite; everything here has been touched, carried, scuffed, adored. The false dagger dreams of a gasp, the painted moon rehearses being hauled into a ceiling of darkness; if I breathe deeply, the dust tastes like confetti—papery, faintly sweet. Who decides which life an object should wear? Out there the stage is clean and bright; in here stories practice under their breath, waiting for a hand, a cue, a light.

Option B:

Backstage: the place where voices are kept on a leash and light is rationed. Gaffer tape forms neat borders; safety pins gleam like tiny teeth. Dust waltzes in the shafts from the rig, and the air tastes faintly of varnish and nerves. The curtains breathe — long, secret breaths — and the stage beyond them holds its mouth shut.

Mia ran her fingertip down the column of boxes on her clipboard, ticking off each item with a metronomic, satisfyingly neat flick. Teacup (cracked but faithful); telegram (folded precisely); revolver (rubber, ridiculous); crown (tinny, yet convincing under light). The last line was always the most important: pocket watch, brass, chain intact. She liked its weight in her palm, the cool circle against her skin; it anchored her in the chaos, the way a lighthouse steadies a ship. It had belonged to the headteacher’s grandfather; the loan had been ceremonious, delivered with a warning smile. Don’t lose it, he had said, as if she ever did. She set everything on the trestle table in rows that would make a mathematician proud.

Eight minutes to places.

She glanced up at the costume rail, at the snaking cables, at the luminous glow tape that hummed softly. Her world was a grid of small things done right. She turned back to the table, reaching for the velvet pouch, already anticipating the click of the clasp and the soft, smug shine of the watch inside.

It was not there.

The pouch lay collapsed, a little velvet mouth yawning emptily. The circle of tape where the watch should sit — where it always sat — was a tidy, accusing halo. For a heartbeat, Mia simply stood and listened to the hum of the dimmers. Then her pulse began to drum in her ears, a brisk, insistent rhythm. How do you lose time?

“Five minutes!” The director’s voice ricocheted through the wings. Somewhere downstage, someone laughed; someone else swore. Without the watch, Act Two would snag and tear. Arthur needs it to hand to Lydia; the confession lands on its chain. No watch meant no chain, no confession, no sense. Nadia would improvise (she thought improvisation was a personality), and the audience would feel it: the seam rip, the illusion fray.

Mia searched with a forensic, fumbling care. She slid her hand beneath the table; splinters grazed her knuckles. She parted the curtain of costumes and inhaled mothballs and perfume; sequins blinked at her like watchful eyes. Earlier, Rory — the understudy — had been practising his exit dangerously close to the table, flicking a coin he wasn’t supposed to have; he liked to hover where he shouldn’t. Under the chaise-longue, a dropped bobby pin; behind the flats, a smudge of chalk; in the prop basket, nothing but rope and a stale apple.

“Two minutes to beginners. Lights to half.”

Memory tried to spool backwards — she had polished the watch an hour ago, hadn’t she? She had counted its ticks; she had placed it, she had— The overture breathed into being, soft woodwind wrapping around the wings like warm fog.

A whisper, then, from the shadowed prompt corner: “Looking for this?” And a glint, quick and taunting, vanished into the dark like a fish flicking away into a black river.

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

Option A:

A single bulb hums above the prop room, throwing stretched shadows across stacked crates. Dust turns in pale light, soft as ash, stirred by a draught under the fire door. It smells of glue and cold velvet; of varnish; of paper roses that kept colour but lost petals. Everything pauses, as if the air holds its breath for a call that doesn’t come. Waiting, and waiting. Scuffed grey walls show the fingerprints of years, a patchy map of performances.

On the nearest shelf, labels hang by frayed string: Ball; Market Scene; Act II Storm. A dented tin moon sits beside a teapot with a glued-on smile. Behind them, a rolling sea of painted canvas leans, creased like a tired skirt. A mannequin torso — torso only — wears a moth-eaten cape. It tilts, arm sockets empty, as if asking where the rest went.

Meanwhile, at the back, a crate of masks grins and gasps: a tragic mouth, a comic one, a white face cracked to a brittle smile. A stage dagger lies beside them; the blade is blunt, but its shine tricks the eye. Feathers spill from a hatbox that once played a nest, and a rubber fish sags over the edge like it has swum out of the shelf. There’s an oversized iron key — heavy, unnecessarily heavy — and a teacup the size of a soup bowl.

Here, things wait; they do not sleep. Each object carries a whisper of story stitched into its corners: laughter, thunder, silence. When the door opens, dust lifts like confetti and the bulb grows braver; for a moment the room becomes a stage. Then it settles again; the moon dents, the mask nods, the sea relaxes against the wall. I close the catalogue, though I want to keep looking; you could stay here for ever, and for ever is not practical for rehearsals.

Option B:

Dress rehearsal. The hour when the theatre pretends to be quiet; lights hum and warm the dust, tape lines gleam on the scuffed floor, and scripts whisper like moths in the wings.

On the prop table, everything had its place: a chipped teacup; a revolver with an orange tip; three letters tied with twine; and, most important, the silver pocket watch. Mia positioned them each night with ceremonial care, edges squared to the tape, a small ritual to steady her hands.

Today, there was only a dent in the velveteen cloth where the watch should sit. The gap gaped. It stared up at her with the blank face of something lost, and her heartbeat stuttered in reply.

She lifted the cloth; nothing. She ducked beneath the table, found a pencil, a rogue button, a curl of ribbon; still nothing. "Has anyone seen the watch?" she called, pitching her voice calmly. Hairspray prickled the air. From the pit came a staccato scale, inconveniently like a ticking clock. Who would take it?

Without that prop, Act Two falls apart: the Colonel cannot time the duel; the reveal becomes a muddle; the last line lands like a dropped tray. Mr Burris, the director, will erupt — he loves that watch more than the script.

However, people had been hovering. June, the understudy, had drifted by earlier, all elbows and apology. Tom liked to "borrow" things when the rehearsal dragged. Jonah had left greasy fingerprints on the teacup last night; she could see them even now.

Meanwhile, the wall clock clicked so loudly she could feel it in her teeth. The irony scratched at her — a play about stolen time, and the instrument of it had vanished. The watch was always there, today it wasn’t.

There wasn’t time to panic. Instead, Mia slid into the wing’s shadow, past ropes and sandbags, past a stack of fake books, towards the old trapdoor that locals said sighed. If the watch had fallen, it would be there. If it hadn’t, she would have to find it before the lights came up, whatever was neccessary.

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

Option A:

The door sighs as it opens into the prop room. Air that tastes like chalk rolls out, and a soft cloud dances in the torch beam. Wooden shelves lean along the walls; their backs are patched with old paint, their edges furred with dust. A bulb hums overhead, a moon in a small sky. It shows row after row of objects that have been used, dropped, repaired, and saved. Everything here is quiet, yet it feels busy.

Top hats sit beside a crooked crown, velvet now crushed and dulled. A brass telescope points at a corner as if watching; cracked mirrors throw thin strips of light like knives. The handle of a painted sword is sticky with fake blood. On a headless mannequin, a beaded dress slumps, its sequins blinking patiently. A marionette hangs from a nail, limbs crossed, strings knotted. The smell is odd—glue, polish, old paper, a whisper of perfume—and it clings to your clothes.

Not everything is ordinary. There is a snow globe that storms with black flakes when you shake it; inside, the house stays lit. A clock with no hands ticks anyway, a nervous heartbeat. In a dented trunk, someone has painted an ocean so blue you can almost hear it; shells glued inside rattle when the lid moves. A helmet carries a candleholder, wax frozen in a pale wave.

Everywhere, labels hang: Baron’s Cane, Scene Two; Nurse’s Tray; Monster’s Rags. The handwriting changes, neat then hurried, as if the room keeps time by scripts. When I run a finger along a mask, its painted smile flakes, leaving gold dust. Floor scars tell stories of hurried feet, and the ladder in the corner waits like a patient tree. Mess is everywhere, but it makes sense. It is a backstage forest—strange, loyal, and ready.

Option B:

Backstage smelt of paint and nerves. Cables snaked along the floor; the dressing-room bulbs hissed softly; the closed curtain was like a held breath. On the prop table, white tape made neat silhouettes — a crown, a goblet, a dagger — and labels were written in tidy capitals: Act I, Act II, Act III. We had been told, repeatedly, to put everything back where it belonged.

I ran my finger around the tape-drawn outline of the dagger and felt nothing. The space was clean, as if the table had decided to swallow it. My stomach dipped. It was gone. Our whole ending depended on that blade; without it Rowan couldn’t fall, the Queen couldn’t sob, the audience wouldn’t gasp. Mr Benton would combust.

"Has anyone seen the dagger?" I called, trying to sound calm. Amira didn’t look up from her powder; Callum tuned his borrowed violin; the junior chorus slipped through the wings like little fish. "Not funny, guys — seriously." I checked the costume rail; the dusty trunk; under the scuffed rostra. I even patted the pockets of the wolf cloak because props wander when no one is watching.

It wasn’t a toy; Miss Dale had borrowed the dagger from her old troupe. Cold aluminium, blunt, but somehow fierce in your hand. We’d practiced the fall for weeks and weeks, rehearsing the gasp, the pause, the look; we were meant to look effortless. The room felt like it was spinning a bit, not with movement but with too many jobs. Theo had been hovering earlier with that grin; he loved mischief — harmless, mostly — and he loved attention. Would he risk tonight? I breathed in dust and hairspray and made a choice. Fifteen minutes to curtain: find it or ruin the show.

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

Option A:

A thin slice of light slips under the heavy door and spreads across the floor, showing dust drifting like slow snow. The air is warm and musty; it tastes of glue, greasepaint and old velvet. Shelves lean against every wall, and they bow a little, carrying odd treasures and tired secrets. A faded curtain hangs like skin, keeping the street noises out. Here, the world is paused.

On the first shelf a cracked mirror tilts and catches a thin grin of light, it throws it back. Beside it, a mask with a painted smile appears to watch me; another frowns, another gapes. Feathers shed softly from a headdress, a single plume sighs to the floor. Wooden swords lie side by side, brave but blunt. A top hat sits proudly, its ribbon moth eaten and loose; wigs doze on white heads like sleepy cats. Who wore them? When? Fake fruit glows in a chipped bowl—wax grapes sticky with dust; a clock has stopped at ten.

Further along, labels curl on boxes: banquet; street; storm. The words are small but they open rooms in my mind. I hear a faint clap hiding in the curtains, I almost hear a violin somewhere. Every object is a pretender: this chair is a throne, this brick is foam, this bottle becomes poison with a label. The room hums with quiet stories and small breaths. Row after row, shelf after shelf, everything waits to be real again. When I pull the door, the light thins, and the dust settles like a curtain falling.

Option B:

Dress rehearsal. The smell of dust; the prickle of hairspray; torch-beams sliding while the red curtain breathes like a tired animal. The prop table sits under a harsh lamp, neat tape labels and velvet cloth, like a tiny museum. On it should be the crown—the paper-gold one with fake rubies that still glimmer. Should be.

I flip the velvet. Only a pale ring where it slept. We practised the scene a hundred times; every hand gesture points to the crown. Without it, Act Two will crack like thin ice. My stomach drops. Only one rule: props never move alone. But it’s gone. The director’s voice crackles through the tannoy, 'Ten minutes!' Ten minutes feels very small.

‘Liv?’ I hiss. She glances up from a knot of tape—'It was there at warm-up. Check the dressing rooms.' So I do. We search: the chorus rail, Makeup, under costumes, behind the dragon head. Sequins stick to my palm like tiny fish. Nothing. How do you tell thirty people the symbol of the whole play is missing.

Meanwhile, the clock staggers. Voices warm like kettles; footsteps thump. It isn’t even gold; it’s cardboard. But to us it’s everything. I check my crumpled list: Crown, Dagger, Letter... I wrote it down, I swear.

At the corridor’s end the prop cupboard is open a crack—just a thin grin of light. I edge closer, heart silly-fast. A shuffle, then a clatter. I lift my hand to knock; my palm is damp. 'Hello?' In the mirror, something flashes gold.

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

Option A:

The prop room is dim and smells of dust and old paint. A thin strip of light slides under the door, making specks glow. Shelves lean like tired trees, bowed with weight; boxes crowd the floor. A velvet cloak hangs with frayed edges. A gold mask rests, pretending to be quiet. The air is dry like paper, and a rope taps, tap, tapping wood.

On the top shelf a cracked teapot sits beside cups: one blue, one silver, one so chipped it looks like a moon. At the back, a barrel is stuffed with swords and umbrellas, a rubber fish pokes out — it grins. Boxes are labelled Forest, Kitchen, Magic; labels peel, dust thickens. A suitcase hums faintly. When I move a chair the floor creaks, the clock that doesn’t tick seems to watch. Then a soft clatter, only a hat sliding from a stack.

Further in, mannequins stand without heads, and a puppet with tangled strings sags like a sleepy bird. Feathers drift from a boa; the room breathes. It is messy but it feels alive, everything waits for lights and voices. I touch the mask, it leaves a pale mark on my fingers — who will wear it, what will it become?

Option B:

Backstage. The air smelt of dust and hairspray; sequins glimmered weakly under the strip lights. Voices buzzed from the hall.

On the props table, a white card read CROWN in thick black marker. Jaya reached out without looking—she had practised this all week, left hand, right foot, breathe. Her fingers met nothing. Wood. Empty space.

The crown was gone.

"Five minutes!" shouted Mr Carr, the stage manager. The word rubbed like sandpaper. Jaya's stomach turned. Without the crown, the final scene would look silly, like a joke without the punch line.

She lifted tablecloths, checked under velvet curtains, peered into the orchestra pit. Nothing; nothing at all.

Meanwhile, Sam clattered in with a foam sword. "You seen it?" he asked, trying to laugh. Me and Sam scanned the dressing room mirrors, the plastic cups, the basket of fake roses. A ribbon trailed like a clue, but it wasn't.

How could it vanish? Someone had moved it, surely; or worse, took it on purpose. Jaya's pulse drummed in her ears.

Then a thought. The photography club had been in. The crown was fragile, glitter stuck to fingers that touched it. Jaya pushed through the fire door into the dim corridor, heart pushing too, the show ticking closer.

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

Option A:

I open the prop room. Dust floats in the thin light from one bulb. The shelves are tall; they go up and up. It smells like paint, glue and old cloth.

There is a mask with a cracked smile like a small moon. A top hat sits wrong with a grey feather. A sword is only wood wrapped in foil, but it still looks sharp. A clock on the wall ticks backwards, tik tok, tik tok, like it forgot the time, it makes me nervous. There is a plastic skull with a tiny light inside, it glows like a jar. A golden shoe, too small for any foot. A fake cake, pink, so real I almost bite it.

A rubber fish with one glass eye.

The bulb swings and the shadows move, like they breath. The floor creaks, the shelves whisper, I think.

I close the door slow, the dust falls again and again and again, the room keeps its secrets.

Option B:

Morning. The hall smelled of dust and paint. The stage lights blinked like sleepy eyes. Costumes hang on a rail; they looked bony and thin. Miss Clark said, find the crown, it must be shiny in the first scene. I nodded. My hands felt like cold water.

I pulled open the prop box. No crown.

It were here yesterday. I held it, it was heavy and fake gold, it pinched my hair.

The curtains whispered when I walked past, and the floor creaked.

Where is it. Where is it, where is it?

I looked under chairs, behind the big black speaker, inside the drum. Only dust and a sweet wrapper that stuck to my finger, it made a small sound. Miss Clark called again. Hurry up. I said, I cant find it, someone took it or maybe it just went missing all by itself.

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

Option A:

Inside the prop room the air is dusty and still. Shelfs are full of old stuff. A cracked mask stares with big eyes, it looks like it could talk but it wont. A plastic sword is shiny and not sharp. A red curtain rolled up, it smells like paint and old wood. I pick up a small skull, it is fake and heavy. I think of lunch. Boxes everywhere with wrong labels you cant read. A big lamp blinks on and off again and again it makes a buzz. In the corner a giant clock with no hands, and a tree that is not real.

Option B:

Morning on the stage, lights buzz and dust floats like tiny snow. We had a crown prop and it should be on the table but it is not. My hands are shaky, I look under the cloth, under the chair, nothing. Miss says keep calm and breathe but my heart runs like a bus. I remember my lunch in my bag and think about crisps for a second. The crown glowed yesterday and now there is only a ring of dust. Someone must of took it or it rolled in the dark gap? I grab a plastic sword instead. Where is it!