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 What does Stephen ask Bounderby for at the start of the extract?: Advice on how to be rid of the woman – 1 mark
• 1.2 Who utters a gentle ejaculation?: Mrs. Sparsit – 1 mark
• 1.3 Bounderby leans back against what?: the chimney-piece – 1 mark
• 1.4 What help does Stephen request from Bounderby?: How to be rid of Stephen's wife – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 26 to 35 of the source:

26 wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o’ this woman, and I want t’ know how?’ ‘No how,’ returned Mr. Bounderby. ‘If I do her any hurt, sir, there’s a law to punish me?’

31 ‘Of course there is.’ ‘If I flee from her, there’s a law to punish me?’

How does the writer use language here to show Stephen’s growing frustration with the law? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively analyse how Dickens uses dialect and parallel interrogatives to show Stephen’s mounting exasperation: the dialectal, burdened idiom "mun be ridden o’ this woman" foregrounds his desperation, while the anaphoric conditionals "If I do her any hurt" / "If I flee" and the repeated refrain "there’s a law to punish me?" create entrapment, sharpened by Bounderby’s short, curt retorts "No how" and "Of course there is."

The writer uses dialect and modality to foreground Stephen’s powerlessness and rising frustration. The colloquial contractions “mun,” “o’,” and “t’” root his voice in working-class speech, distancing him from the official language of the law and amplifying his sense of exclusion. The idiomatic metaphor “be ridden o’ this woman” suggests being weighed down or oppressed, and the modal “mun” (must) conveys grim compulsion. His plea, “I want t’ know how?”, positions him as rational and seeking lawful means, which makes the refusal that follows more galling.

Moreover, the staccato exchange relies on contrasting sentence forms. Stephen’s interrogatives meet Bounderby’s curt, monosyllabic declaratives: “No how.” and “Of course there is.” These short declaratives carry a peremptory tone, shutting down options and reinforcing institutional indifference. The brisk stichomythia (rapid line-for-line dialogue) dramatizes the power imbalance, creating for the reader a palpable sense of doors slamming in Stephen’s face.

Furthermore, Dickens builds frustration through parallelism and anaphora. The repeated conditional clauses, “If I do her any hurt… If I flee from her…,” paired with the epistrophe “there’s a law to punish me,” construct a verbal trap. The noun “law” is consistently yoked to “punish,” establishing a punitive semantic field that frames the law as an instrument against him rather than a protection. The escalation from “hurt” to “flee” intensifies desperation; even the morally lesser act of escape is criminalised. Stephen’s deferential vocative “sir” amid these rhetorical questions heightens the injustice, prompting the reader’s sympathy while crystallising his growing, helpless anger at a system that offers “no how” out.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Dickens uses Stephen’s dialect—‘I mun be ridden o’ this woman’—and repeated conditional interrogatives, ‘If I do her any hurt… there’s a law to punish me?’ and ‘If I flee from her, there’s a law to punish me?’, to show he feels trapped and increasingly frustrated as every choice is punished. The contrast with Bounderby’s curt replies—‘No how’, ‘Of course there is’—highlights the law’s cold inflexibility, intensifying Stephen’s desperation.

The writer uses dialect and idiomatic phrasing to foreground Stephen’s desperation. The dialectal modal “mun” (must) shows compulsion, while the colloquial “be ridden o’ this woman” suggests he feels oppressed and longs to be “rid” of a burden. This choice of words conveys that Stephen sees no tolerable alternative, which begins to build his frustration with a system that offers him no humane solution.

Moreover, Dickens employs repetition and parallel conditional interrogatives to show that his frustration is growing. The anaphora in “If I do her any hurt…” and “If I flee from her…” creates a relentless rhythm, and the repeated clause “there’s a law to punish me?” makes the law sound purely punitive. These rhetorical questions imply he already knows the answer, intensifying the sense that every path is blocked.

Furthermore, Mr Bounderby’s curt declaratives—“No how” and “Of course there is”—are short, blunt, and dismissive. The clipped dialogue and monosyllabic phrasing shut Stephen down, highlighting the power imbalance and the law’s inflexibility. Consequently, the reader feels Stephen’s mounting frustration, as legal authority answers his pleas with finality rather than help.

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 repetition in Stephen’s questions — If I do her any hurt and If I flee from her, there’s a law to punish me? — to show his frustration and feeling trapped, while Bounderby’s short replies No how and Of course there is shut him down. His dialect like mun and t’ highlights his working-class voice and makes his pleas sound more desperate.

The writer uses dialect and emotive language to show Stephen’s frustration. The phrase “I mun be ridden o’ this woman” uses dialect (“mun”) to show he feels he must act, and “ridden o’” suggests a heavy burden he cannot carry, so he grows desperate. His question “I want t’ know how?” sounds pleading, showing rising tension.

Furthermore, rhetorical questions and repetition stress his anger. He repeats “there’s a law to punish me?” after “If I do her any hurt” and again after “If I flee from her”. The repeated phrase and the conditional “If” show he feels trapped either way, which frustrates him.

Moreover, short, blunt answers from Bounderby—“No how” and “Of course there is”—shut him down. This dialogue and the harsh word “punish” make the law seem strict and unforgiving, increasing Stephen’s frustration.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response identifies simple features: repeated questions like 'If I do her any hurt' and 'If I flee from her' with the word 'law' show Stephen’s frustration because he’ll be punished whatever he does. It also notes the short reply 'No how' and dialect 'mun' and 't’', saying this makes his situation sound hopeless.

The writer uses rhetorical questions to show Stephen’s frustration. He asks, "If I do her any hurt... there’s a law to punish me?" and then, "If I flee from her... there’s a law to punish me?", which shows he feels trapped whatever he does. Moreover, the repetition of "there’s a law to punish me?" makes his anger grow. Furthermore, Mr. Bounderby’s short replies, "No how" and "Of course there is", are blunt dialogue that increases Stephen’s irritation. Additionally, the dialect like "I mun be ridden o’ this woman" suggests his desperation and powerlessness.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Non-standard dialect marks a plain, urgent voice, underscoring impatience for a lawful solution ("I mun")
• Idiomatic/metaphoric phrasing casts “this woman” as a burden, intensifying the need to escape and the frustration at being unable to ("be ridden o’ this woman")
• Parallel conditional openings build a no-win structure where every path seems condemned ("If I flee")
• Repetition of the legal refrain makes the law feel inescapably punitive, amplifying exasperation ("there’s a law to punish me?")
• Interrogatives dominate, a plea for guidance that edges into agitation when no remedy appears ("I want t’ know how?")
• Terse denial from the other speaker stonewalls any solution, heightening helplessness ("No how")
• The bland certainty of the reply presents the law as automatic and inflexible, deepening frustration ("Of course there is.")
• Stark contrast between violent and passive options frames an impossible choice, fuelling resentment at constraint ("do her any hurt")
• Opening fragment signals prior grievance, priming the tone of complaint against the legal bind ("wrongs than mine.")

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: Level 4: A perceptive response would track how empathy intensifies through escalating dialogue: the anaphoric Q&A—Stephen’s repeated 'If I...' met by Bounderby’s curt 'Of course there is.'—tightens a sense of entrapment to the plea 'show me the law to help me!', while ironic asides about Mrs. Sparsit ('dejected by the impiety') align the reader with Stephen. The bureaucratic accumulation ('Doctors’ Commons... Common Law... House of Lords...') and indifferent stage business ('putting his hands in his pockets') contrast institutional power with Stephen’s voice, so the scene moves from contained appeal ('I ha’ coom to ask yo...') to the fatalistic close '’tis a muddle... the sooner I am dead,' intensifying sympathy by the end.

One way the writer structures the extract to generate empathy is by opening in medias res with Stephen’s direct plea. The immediate, dialogue-driven focus—“I ha’ coom to ask yo…how I am to be ridded o’ this woman”—foregrounds desperation, while Mrs. Sparsit’s parenthetical aside and Bounderby “lean[ing] his back against the chimney-piece” stage a power imbalance. This early juxtaposition isolates Stephen and aligns the reader with his vulnerability, priming sympathetic investment.

In addition, the stichomythic question‑and‑answer pattern quickens the pace and deepens empathy through anaphora. Stephen’s repeated interrogatives—“If I do her any hurt…If I flee…If I marry t’other dear lass…If I was to live wi’ her”—meet the unfeeling refrain “Of course there is,” structurally enacting entrapment. A volta follows—“show me the law to help me!”—which shifts focus from punishment to help and exposes asymmetry. The writer then widens the lens with “’Sizes…Sessions…battle, murder, and sudden death,” broadening our sympathy to a social scale.

A further strategy is the escalating enumeration of impossible remedies. Bounderby’s procedural list—“Doctors’ Commons…Common Law…House of Lords…an Act of Parliament”—and the quantified cost (“a thousand to fifteen hundred pound…Perhaps twice”) create an ascending series that annihilates hope. Brief narrative reportage—Stephen “turning white” and “motioning…to the four winds”—acts like stage directions at the nadir. The scene is bracketed by Mrs. Sparsit’s choric asides, so the final aphorism—“’tis a muddle… the sooner I am dead, the better”—lands as a devastating endpoint, securing our empathy.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how the dialogue structure builds empathy, moving from Stephen’s initial plea (‘I ha’ coom to ask yo...’) through a repetitive question-and-answer pattern (‘If I...?’ / ‘Of course there is.’) and a mounting list of hurdles (‘Doctors’ Commons... House of Lords... Act of Parliament’). It would show the tonal shift from hope (‘show me the law to help me!’) to despair (‘’tis a muddle... the sooner I am dead’), while curt authority (‘No how’) and moral asides (‘Mrs. Sparsit... dejected’) intensify his powerlessness and our empathy.

One way in which the writer structures the extract to create empathy is the immediate focus on Stephen’s plea in medias res through direct speech. The extract opens with ‘I ha’ coom to ask yo, sir...’, with no exposition, placing the reader inside his predicament. The dialogue-led structure and sustained perspective on Stephen—reinforced by the narrator’s aside that he has a ‘quiet manner’ and ‘never wandering’ attention—keeps our focus on his dignity and need, encouraging empathy.

In addition, patterned Q&A turn-taking intensifies empathy. Stephen’s parallel clauses—‘If I do her any hurt... If I flee...’—are met with the refrain ‘Of course there is.’ This anaphora and cumulative listing slow the pace and escalate his entrapment. The focus then shifts to a list of institutions—‘Doctors’ Commons... House of Lords...’—and the cost, ‘a mint of money’, marking a turning point from his plea, ‘show me the law to help me!’, to defeat.

A further structural feature is the juxtaposition of Stephen’s sincerity with interruptions. Mrs. Sparsit’s parenthetical asides and Bounderby’s curt responses frame his speeches, isolating him. The extract closes on a bleak climax—‘‘tis a muddle... the sooner I am dead’—which resolves the sequence and leaves the reader aligned with his despair.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would identify that empathy builds through the back-and-forth dialogue: starting with Stephen’s plea "I mun’ be ridden o’ her", the repeated "there’s a law to punish me?" and Bounderby’s "Of course there is" show his helplessness, then the escalating list "Doctors’ Commons... House of Lords... Act of Parliament" leads to the final despairing "’tis a muddle... the sooner I am dead". This structure shifts the tone to despair and makes the reader feel sympathy.

One way the writer structures the text to create empathy is through dialogue and a question-and-answer start. Stephen asks, “I ha’ coom to ask yo,” and Bounderby replies with repeated short answers, “Of course there is.” The repetition shows a power imbalance and makes the reader pity Stephen.

In addition, in the middle the writer uses repetition and listing to build his trap. Stephen repeats “If I…” before pleading, “show me the law to help me!” Then Bounderby’s long list of courts slows the pace and shows the cost.

A further structural feature is a shift in tone at the end. After the hope of “There is such a law,” it turns to despair when it is “not for you,” and Stephen, “turning white,” says, “’tis a muddle… the sooner I am dead,” increasing empathy.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The text moves from Stephen’s plea at the start ('I ha’ coom to ask yo'), through repeated Q&A ('If I...' / 'Of course there is') showing he’s trapped, to a sad ending ('’tis a muddle... the sooner I am dead, the better'), so we feel more empathy. The simple dialogue and repetition make the reader feel sorry for him.

One way the writer structures the text to create empathy is by starting with Stephen’s direct speech. We hear his voice (“I ha’ coom to ask yo”), so we know his problem and feel for him.

In addition, the repetition of question and answer builds this feeling: “If I…” and “Of course there is.” This shows he is trapped by the law, which makes the reader pity him.

A further feature is the ending. After the list of courts, the final line “‘tis a muddle… the sooner I am dead” is a climax, so empathy is strongest.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• In medias res opening with Stephen’s direct petition centres his need immediately, aligning us with his plight (I ha’ coom to ask yo)
• Interleaved narrative stage directions contrast responses, spotlighting Stephen’s seriousness against others’ judgment and deepening sympathy (deeper gravity)
• Alternating voices and dialect across the dialogue foreground class and power imbalance, making his vulnerability feel authentic (I mun’ be ridden o’ her)
• Patterned comparison between “great folk” and “we” accumulates injustice over successive clauses, inviting empathy through social contrast (we can’t)
• Rhythmic Q&A with Bounderby’s identical refrain creates claustrophobic inevitability, highlighting Stephen’s entrapment (Of course there is)
• Structural pivot with a direct appeal for aid raises emotional stakes, focusing compassion on his helplessness (show me the law)
• Extended procedural list and cost revelation delay and then crush hope, intensifying pity for systemic cruelty (mint of money)
• Placement of a physical reaction just before the final verdict signals collapse, cueing readers’ emotional response (turning white)
• Concluding, refrain-like condemnation frames the whole exchange as futile, leaving a bleak, empathetic aftertaste (’tis a muddle)
• Recurring parenthetical asides about Mrs. Sparsit’s moralizing act as a cold chorus, isolating Stephen socially and ethically (again dejected)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, when Stephen finds out how much a divorce costs, his despair is very clear. The writer suggests that the law is a trap for the poor, offering them punishment but no help.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Stephen's despair at the cost of divorce
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the law as a trap
• 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: At Level 4, candidates would largely agree the writer presents the law as a punitive trap for the poor, analysing how the anaphoric 'Of course there is' for punishments contrasts with the plea 'show me the law to help me!', the class opposition 'great folk... set free' versus 'We fok... can’t', and the bureaucratic, costly list ('Doctors’ Commons... court of Common Law... House of Lords... Act of Parliament', 'a mint of money', 'a thousand to fifteen hundred pound'), culminating in Stephen’s despairing '’tis a muddle... the sooner I am dead'. A sophisticated response may acknowledge the caveat 'There is such a law' yet argue its inaccessibility reinforces the writer’s viewpoint that help exists only in principle, not for Stephen.

I strongly agree with the statement. Dickens makes Stephen’s despair unmistakable at the moment he learns the cost of divorce, and he crafts the legal system as a punitive maze that the poor cannot escape. Although Bounderby coolly insists “There is such a law,” the addendum “not for you at all” exposes how “help” exists only in principle; for Stephen, it functions as a trap.

From the outset, Dickens frames the issue through sharp class contrast. Stephen’s dialect and inclusive pronouns (“We fok”) establish his working-class identity and communal struggle, while the antithesis between “great folk” with “rooms… above a bit” who “can live asunders” and “We… only one room, and we can’t” foregrounds structural inequality. Modals (“they can… We can’t”) form a patterned opposition that foreshadows entrapment. The following call-and-response exchange builds a relentless rhythm: the anaphora “If I…” met by Bounderby’s refrain “Of course there is” creates a drumbeat of sanction—if he hurts her, flees, marries again, or even cohabits—“there’s a law to punish me.” This cumulative pattern makes Stephen’s plea—“show me the law to help me!”—a pointed rhetorical challenge, highlighting the system’s asymmetry.

Bounderby’s initial resort to abstract euphemism—“There’s a sanctity… and it must be kept up”—is immediately undercut by Stephen’s retort that it is “kep’ down that way,” a deft inversion that reveals the moralizing as oppression. Dickens widens the critique through legal register and tricolon: “every ’Sizes, every Sessions… brings… battle, murder, and sudden death,” implying that the supposed “sanctity” breeds violence. When the “help” is finally specified, the polysyndetic listing—“you’d have to go to Doctors’ Commons… and… a court of Common Law… and… the House of Lords… and… get an Act of Parliament”—escalates the institutional hurdles. The blend of idiom and precision—“a mint of money… from a thousand to fifteen hundred pound… Perhaps twice”—renders the remedy extravagantly out of reach, converting the law’s promise into a mechanism of exclusion.

Stephen’s despair is then dramatised physically and linguistically. He is “turning white,” and his gesture—“as if he gave everything to the four winds”—symbolises total surrender. His verdict “’tis a muddle” reduces the labyrinthine process to absurdity, while the hyperbolic “the sooner I am dead, the better” voices nihilistic hopelessness. Dickens’s parenthetical irony—“Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the impiety”—juxtaposes genteel sensibility with Stephen’s agony, intensifying the social indictment.

Overall, Stephen’s despair is vividly clear, and the law is shown to punish every path yet price the only relief beyond his means. If help exists, it is class-locked; in effect, the law ensnares the poor, offering punishment but no practical help.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: At Level 3, a candidate would mostly agree that the writer portrays the law as a trap for the poor, noting the repetitive Q&A where every choice brings "Of course there is" punishment, Stephen’s plea "show me the law to help me!", and the prohibitive costs—"a mint of money", "from a thousand to fifteen hundred pound" after a list of courts. They would also identify Stephen’s despair in "'tis a muddle" and "the sooner I am dead, the better", while briefly acknowledging Bounderby’s "sanctity" as a limited counterpoint.

I agree to a great extent that Stephen’s despair is made very clear, and that the law is presented as a trap for the poor, offering punishment but no help. Dickens uses dialogue, repetition and structural listing to show how every exit is closed to Stephen unless he can pay.

At the start of this section, the contrast between ‘great folk’ and ‘We fok’ establishes inequality. The parallel phrasing ‘they can… We can’t’ and the repeated negation ‘We can’t’ emphasise how the poor have no space or money to separate. The Q&A dialogue creates a tightening net: ‘If I do her any hurt…?’—‘Of course there is.’ This anaphora recurs across options—‘If I flee…?’ ‘If I marry…?’—each time answered with the same refrain. Stephen’s imperative plea, ‘Now, a’ God’s name, show me the law to help me!’ functions as a rhetorical challenge exposing that there is none. Bounderby’s curt ‘No how’ and later ‘Certainly not’ make that denial bluntly explicit.

Bounderby’s evasive moralising—‘There’s a sanctity… and—and—it must be kept up’—uses abstraction and hesitations, which Stephen counters with antithesis: ‘’Tis kep’ down that way.’ When Bounderby concedes, ‘There is such a law… But it’s not for you at all,’ the irony is clear: the remedy exists only for those who can afford it. The parallel listing—‘you’d have to go to Doctors’ Commons… to a court of Common Law… to the House of Lords… get an Act of Parliament’—piles up proper nouns to create an impassable legal maze. The cost—‘a mint of money… a thousand to fifteen hundred pound… perhaps twice’—feels like hyperbole, yet its specificity makes Stephen’s position hopeless.

Finally, Stephen’s despair erupts physically: ‘turning white,’ he gestures ‘as if he gave everything to the four winds,’ a metaphor of surrender, and concludes, ‘’tis a muddle… the sooner I am dead, the better.’ Overall, I strongly agree: Dickens portrays a punitive system that sells freedom to the rich while trapping the poor in misery.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: At Level 2, a response would mostly agree that the law traps the poor, noticing Stephen’s despair in “turning white” and “the sooner I am dead, the better”. It would give simple examples like the repeated “law to punish me” versus “show me the law to help me!”, and the unfair cost — “There is such a law” but “it’s not for you at all” since it “costs a mint of money” (about “a thousand to fifteen hundred pound”).

I mostly agree with the statement. Stephen’s despair is shown very clearly, and the writer makes the law seem like a system that catches poor people and offers no escape.

At the start of this section, the contrast between “great folk” and “We fok” shows inequality. The dialect (“We fok ha’ only one room”) highlights Stephen’s class, and the contrast with rich people who can “live asunders” and have “gowd” suggests the law works for them but not for him. This builds sympathy and sets up the idea of a trap.

The dialogue and repetition make the trap feel tight. Stephen asks a series of questions: “If I do her any hurt…?” “If I flee from her…?” “If I marry t’oother…?” and each time Bounderby answers, “Of course there is” [a law to punish]. This repeated structure shows punishment at every turn, but no help. Stephen then demands, “show me the law to help me!” This rhetorical challenge is answered by Bounderby’s list: “Doctors’ Commons… Common Law… House of Lords… Act of Parliament.” The listing and the phrase “a mint of money” and “a thousand to fifteen hundred pound… Perhaps twice” emphasise how impossible it is for a poor man.

Finally, Stephen’s reaction shows despair. The image “turning white” and “as if he gave everything to the four winds” suggests he is giving up hope, and his line “’tis a muddle… the sooner I am dead, the better” is extreme. Even the narrator’s comment about Mrs. Sparsit being “dejected” shows the higher classes judge him, not help him.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer presents the law as punishing Stephen’s choices and giving no real help to the poor.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree that the writer shows the law as a trap for the poor, simply citing Stephen’s repetition 'there’s a law to punish me' versus his plea 'show me the law to help me,' and the unaffordable cost 'a mint of money' and 'a thousand to fifteen hundred pound.' It would briefly identify his despair by noting he turns 'white' and says 'the sooner I am dead, the better.'

I mostly agree with the statement. Stephen’s despair is very clear when he hears the price of divorce, and the law seems to work against poor people.

At first Stephen shows hope and asks for help: "show me the law to help me!" The writer uses repetition of questions and answers: "If I... there’s a law to punish me?" and Bounderby repeats "Of course there is." This makes the law feel like a trap. The contrast of "they" and "we" shows class difference.

When Bounderby explains the process, the list of courts—"Doctors’ Commons... Common Law... House of Lords"—and "not for you at all... a mint of money" show it is too complicated and expensive. The huge sum "a thousand to fifteen hundred pound... perhaps twice the money" shows it is impossible for Stephen.

Stephen’s despair is shown in his reaction. He turns "white" and says "’tis a muddle... the sooner I am dead, the better," which shows hopelessness. His gesture, "gave everything to the four winds," suggests giving up.

Overall, I agree that the writer presents the law as punishing the poor and giving no help, and Stephen’s despair is obvious.

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:

• Repetition and parallel structure: Bounderby’s unvarying answer to each option makes the law feel inescapably punitive, intensifying the “trap” impression (Of course there is.)
• Rhetorical challenge: Stephen’s urgent demand exposes a system with punishment but no support, aligning the reader with his protest (show me the law)
• Bureaucratic listing: The step-by-step naming of institutions renders divorce a forbidding maze reserved for the rich, heightening exclusion (Doctors’ Commons)
• Escalating cost: Precise, swelling sums make legal relief unimaginable for a weaver, triggering shock and hopelessness (Perhaps twice the money)
• Physical reaction: The concise stage-direction conveys immediate, bodily despair at the price revealed (turning white)
• Defeatist metaphor: Stephen’s verdict of chaos culminates in self-effacement, revealing how the system crushes hope (’tis a muddle)
• Class contrast: Juxtaposing the rich “asunders” life with cramped poverty stresses structural unfairness in access to remedies (We fok ha’ only one room)
• Unequal justice: The claim that the better-off are freed for lesser causes underscores bias baked into the law (set free for smaller wrongs)
• Irony and rebuttal: “Sanctity” is exposed as oppressive doctrine when Stephen flips it to show suppression, not support (’Tis kep’ down)
• Violent consequence triad: The stark list of outcomes blames legal irreversibility for social harm, strengthening the critique (battle, murder, and sudden death)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

For a time capsule to be buried on the village green, you have been asked to contribute a creative piece.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a Bronze Age roundhouse interior from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about an object unearthed after a storm.

(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:

At the centre, a hearth breathes. Orange tongues lick the stones; smoke unspools in languid ribbons, negotiating the conical roof. The thatch drinks the glow; the rafters hold soot like old thunderclouds. Ash lifts and settles, a slow snow in a windowless world. The air tastes of peat and roasted grain; it threads the throat with acrid sweetness. Time pools in the corners.

Walls—wattle packed with dun clay—curve around you, a ribcage of hazel and earth. In their interstices, light behaves like water, seeping, slipping, stippling. Finger-marks fossilised in the daub run like small rivers; a thumbprint here, a smudge there: signatures of hands that do not speak but persist. Plaited ropes hang from a peg; a charm of teeth (wolf? boar?) jangles softly when the door-breath nudges it.

At the doorway, a hide droops; it coughs light into a blade. Wind enters, polite; smoke leaves, reluctant. Around the fire, low stools and kneeling stones press rings into the packed floor, the ground polished by knees. Baskets squat in a half-circle - brimful of barley, hazelnuts; the straw has its own grammar. A quern waits; its upper stone is smooth as an old shoulder, freckled with grit. Nearby, a loom leans, its warp threads taut as rain; rows of clay weights dangle like dull fruit.

Bronze winks from the gloom—knife, brooch, a spiral bracelet; not ostentatious, but certain. Caught in the firelight, a blade drinks the colour of sunrise and gives it back grudgingly. Bone comb. A tiny bead like a frozen tear. Here, nothing is wasted; even the silence is folded and kept. From the rafters, strips of meat crust into darkness, sending out a sweetness that quarrels with the peat-smoke. Fat pops on the coals—small starbursts, small applause.

Listen: the creak of willow baskets, the soft drum of feet, the spatter of rain the thatch edits to a hush. Smell speaks more fluently than words here - resin, sweat, milk, crushed mint from someone’s pouch. Taste the air and you learn the day: porridge early, venison later, ash always. Outside, the dark waits; inside, the roundness comforts. The roof holds the weather at arm’s length; the fire makes a small sun.

What can be told by the floor tells itself: a scatter of burnt husks, a child’s heel pressed near the hearth, the green bloom of verdigris where a pin once lay. Who pressed that heel? Who set the bead upon the twine and paused? Even now, the roundhouse breathes. The walls remember the grammar of hands; the roof remembers weather; the floor remembers feet. You inhale - and for a second, the centuries draw closer, like figures leaning in to hear their own story told back to them.

Option B:

By morning, the storm had spent itself and slipped offshore, as if embarrassed by its own tantrum. The village wore its aftermath like a hastily reassembled jigsaw: fences canted; bins belly-up; the brook, ordinarily a modest thread, swollen into a brown, impatient rope. Seaweed had climbed the sea wall and collapsed in exhausted handfuls. The air tasted metallic—iron and kelp and creosote—and the roads glittered with confetti of glass. Even the sky looked scoured, a bruise-coloured dome that would, perhaps, clear.

Mara went out with a broom, handle balanced on her shoulder like a mast. She was meant to sweep; to be useful. Instead, drawn by a curiosity she pretended not to own, she turned down the coastal path. It had been bitten—a neat ribbon of tarmac ending in a raw gape. At its lip, the old beech had finally given up—roots reared and splayed, a pale cathedral exposing loam not seen in decades.

In the churned earth, among bottle tops and the carcass of a kettle, something purer glinted. Not glass; not plastic. Metal. She crouched, steadying herself on the beech’s slick root, and teased back a curl of soil. A compass emerged: brass burnished in crescent moons where it had rubbed against whatever imprisoned it; a lens of cracked glass; a needle that trembled like a trapped thought. Along its rim, almost erased by time, someone had engraved a cartouche of waves and the initials E.M.

Gran would have said the land keeps its own ledger, and storms are merely auditors. She had told Mara, more than once, about the drowned road to Lunnis and the men who trusted a compass more than the tide. It was fanciful; it was history; it was not, strictly speaking, useful. Yet here was a needle still insisting, still certain, as if it had been waiting for a palm to warm it back into speech.

Mara turned the housing, slowly. The needle swung, faltered, and settled—not north. Not even close. It pointed inland, across hedgerows, through terrace roofs and the church, as if the earth had been softly magnetised by a secret. She laughed once (a sharp, surprised sound), and then did the childish thing she knew adults would disapprove of: she slipped the compass into her pocket. She would hand it in; of course. After breakfast. After she had followed it—just to see.

The wind fussed at her hair; a drip counted from the beech like a metronome. Behind her, the village began its clatter of mending—hammers, voices, a van reversing with that punctilious beep. The storm had excavated a story along with its spoil; she could feel it, the way one senses a weather change—a pressure, a hush, a pull. If a compass cannot help pointing, what else could she do?

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

Option A:

Ducking under the lintel, I am met by a hush that tastes of smoke and damp earth. The roundhouse breathes. Fire beats at its centre: a steady amber heart; a patient animal licking wood with thin blue tongues. Walls gleam, then dim; shadows loop. The air is heavy—warm, peaty, persuasive—and presses my cheeks like a woollen sleeve. Smoke uncurls like a cat and lays itself along the rafters.

Above me the roof climbs into a dark cone, ribs of oak bending to an apex where the smoke-hole blinks. Soot glosses the rafters; tar-black, ancient, they knot like joined hands. The walls are a lattice of hazel—wattle crossed and crossed again—bound with daub the colour of dried clay. Threads of light seep through the weave and stitch pale stripes across the floor; when the fire jumps, they shiver. Dust motes drift in their own small constellations, circling the apex as if the roof were its own slow sky.

Around the hearth, a ring of low stools waits; a pelt is thrown over one, its coarse hairs singed. Baskets crouch in the shadows, their plaited bellies packed with barley, knobbled roots, flints. A quern (a heavy grinding stone) sits squat, its rim dusted with chalky flour; beside it, a smoothing stone shines. Pots squat too—thick-lipped, thumb-marked, slightly skewed—their rims blackened, breathing out a sour-sweet warmth. A bundle of kindling leans by the door; a wet cloak steams gently, giving off the sour ghost of rain.

A sliver of bronze lies on a shelf—knife or mirror, it is hard to tell—catching firelight and returning it in a chill gleam; when the flames lift, it flashes like a wet moon. From the rafters hang small things that matter: knotted cords, curls of dried herbs, shells threaded on sinew, a bird’s foot, a charm. Outside, wind combs the thatch; here, the pot hums and the stew answers, a soft, persistent glug.

The floor, beaten and patient, is a palimpsest—heel marks, ash drifts, husks, a child’s scratch that might be a deer. Smoke braids upwards in slow ropes and slides through the oculus, reluctant, then gone. Everything circles and returns: warmth to wall, light to clay, breath to air. Scents layer here: peat-smoke, tallow, crushed nettle, damp wool. In this round space, time does not hurry; it folds. What else does a house need—except flame, food, and the closeness of lives to make a memory?

Option B:

After the storm: the village looked rearranged; fences bowed, bins toppled, the air rinsed and metallic with the scent of rain. Puddles held the sky; twigs stitched rough seams along the verges; a shy sun shook itself free of ragged cloud. From the hedges came that washed silence you hear after chaos, as if sound itself were catching its breath.

In our garden, the oak had not survived. It lay half upended, roots exposed like a fist finally unclenched, soil clinging in dense ropes. My mother stared at the gap—thirty years of shade gone in a night—and went inside to ring the insurance. I went closer, slipping on the slick grass, feeling grit seep into my socks and a cold, brackish smell lift from the torn earth.

That was when I saw it: a corner of metal glinting in a small cave under the root-ball. Not shining—dulled, scabbed with verdigris—but deliberate. It was wedged as if the tree had been guarding it; when I knelt, the mud swallowed my fingers with a soft gasp.

The box—because that is what it was, a box of tin or brass—was heavier than it looked. I rocked it free, inch by inch, until the earth reluctantly released it. There was a clasp, clogged with grit; there were letters, almost erased, pricked along the lid: J. L., or maybe T. I. The metal smelled of pennies and rain; hair-fine cracks made a map of time across its surface.

It occurred to me, immediately if a little absurdly, that someone had put it there on purpose. The storm had been a thief and a revealer; it had torn open our garden and, in doing so, offered something back. What kind of person buries a box beneath a tree and walks away? I hesitated—ridiculous, to hesitate over a box—and yet my palms prickled with possibility. Inside there could be: coins, letters, a photograph, nothing at all; the unknown felt dense as silt. I wiped the lid, listened to water drip from the eaves, heard a distant dog bark... life tugging at me to get on. I pressed my thumb to the clasp; it did not move, then yielded. The lid lifted a fraction.

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

Option A:

The doorway is low; I bow to enter. Smoke folds around me, a thin, bluish veil carrying the taste of last night’s fire. The roundhouse breathes—warm, animal, alive—beneath its cone of thatch. At the centre, flame sits like a small, patient sun; red coals pulse; the fire whispers in its own language. Light licks the clay, pulling ochre stains and finger marks from the daub.

Above, rafters lean towards each other, a wheel of dark timber bound by cord and trust. Smoke finds the gaps slowly, slowly, threading itself up to the smoke-hole. Soot has painted a night sky over my head: constellations of tar. The air is thick with familiar things—damp wool, peat, old stew, the mineral breath of earth.

To the left, pots shoulder the curve of the wall; their bellies are warm, their rims chipped. Beside them a quern sits in a drift of flour, pale as frost; the handstone, smoothed by mornings, waits. Baskets crouch under a raw-edged bench, ribs of willow holding barley, hazelnuts, a sliver of salt. On a peg glints a small bronze blade—green-bloomed, but still keen.

Meanwhile the loom keeps its own corner; clay weights dangle like dull fruits, the warp taut as a held breath. I can almost hear the shuttle, hear the soft clack-clack of work. In the earthen floor, heel marks are trapped in the dust, a map of whoever left moments ago, or decades; it is hard to say. There is a bead near the threshold—amber or glass—its tiny light stubborn as a thought.

Beyond the fire, a sleeping place is banked with skins; moss is stuffed into seams to stop draughts that creep under walls. The woven wattle shows through in places, like bones in a thin wrist. Wind tests the doorway, then releases; smoke swings, back and forth, back and forth, skirting my eyes with a sting. And still, despite the ash, there is order: tools have their corners, food its careful caches; the circle holds everything in. When I step towards daylight, the place turns to a dim copper bowl—warm, breathing, complete.

Option B:

Morning uncurled over the estuary with a damp sigh. All night the storm had prowled and shouldered the houses; it clawed at fences, bullied the gutters until they gurgled, and pushed the river’s brown back into the reeds. Now everything shone with a wet sheen. The lane was a ribbon of slate, hedges were slick and combed the wrong way, and the beach beyond was scalloped with ridges of kelp, bottle tops and splinters of orange roof tiles like sliced carrots scattered by a distracted cook.

Maya stepped out cautiously, boots sucking at the mud with patient pops. She carried a broom and a black bin bag, the kind that sighs when you open it, and her sleeves were already freckled with rain. The wind had quietened but it still threaded through everything, picking at her hair and pulling at the loose gate. Her granddad used to say storms were greedy but generous too: they took away whole trees and gave you someone else’s secrets. She wanted to see what it had decided to give back.

At the foot of the low dune, where the dune grass was flattened to a dull green bruise, something small blinked under a smear of sand. Not a shell. Not plastic. A circle of muted brass glinted—almost shy. She knelt and brushed the grit away with the flat of her hand. The object was heavier than she expected, compact, cool, stubborn. It came loose with a soft sigh of wet sand, revealing a clasp and a lid, the face cloudy with salt like breath on a window. Inside, a needle trembled. North, maybe. The casing was pebbled with corrosion and delicate scratches; someone had carried this often. She rubbed at the grime with the corner of her cuff and letters surfaced, faint but definite: J. H., cut into the metal with an impatient blade. The smell came up—brine and something old, like a damp drawer.

She stood and turned it in her palm, unsure whether to be thrilled or wary. It felt official, almost; purposeful. A compass, she thought, and the word steadied her even as the idea of it shifted the day. What was it doing here, cradled in our sand after a night like that?

Maya didn’t know it then, but the storm hadn’t only unearthed an object. It had tugged at a thread. And when she pulled, gently at first, the whole story began to come loose.

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

Option A:

Firelight crawls over the curved walls, a restless amber animal in its ring of stones. The air is warm; it tastes of peat and something sweet, like sap. In here, shadows are long and patient.

At the centre the hearth breathes. Birch logs collapse into red caves, sending sparks that flick and die. Above, the roof lifts into a cone, ribs of oak blackened by years of soot. Through a small mouth at the top the night peers in; pale smoke threads through, slow as wool.

The walls are woven—hazel rods braided tight, daub pressed in like bread dough. Your fingers would find their pattern: bump, smooth, crack, then straw. Against them lean the life of the house: a loom asleep with stone weights, baskets of grain, pots soot-stained.

Underfoot the floor is hard earth, stamped flat by feet and seasons. Beds are low, heaps of bracken and skins tucked against the curve; a folded cloak, a bronze brooch glinting in the fire’s flicker. By the hearth sits the quern—round stone turning in its shallow partner—and a wooden bowl dusted with flour like frost.

Somewhere a quiet sound continues, rhythmic and sure: grind, lift, grind. Someone’s hands work while others doze. A child breathes soft; a dog twitches; the goat in the pen shifts. Outside the wind worries the walls, but here the house holds it back—only a thin draught slips under the door.

The place is simple, close, and careful. Heat, smoke, stored grain, skins, tools: everything necessary, nothing spare. Round and round the fire goes, licking the stones, until the coals settle and the room glows like a held ember.

Option B:

After the storm, the village was a jigsaw of damp pieces: fences slouched, bins lay on their sides, and the lane ran in brown ribbons towards the river. Gulls wheeled and squabbled over a burst black bag. The sky looked bruised, a sore grey washed thin by the late sun. Puddles held broken bits of sky like cracked mirrors; hedges were stitched with twigs and scraps of newspaper. In the garden, the apple tree leaned as if tired, and the beds had become a heavy pudding of mud. Maya pushed the gate with her shoulder and stepped in. She rolled up her sleeves and began to lift the soggy, tangled mess.

As she peeled back a mat of ivy near the old wall, her fingers met something hard. Not stone. She brushed away slick earth; something glinted, not bright, but stubborn. A small tin box lay there, half risen by the storm. Dented. Rain-dark. One corner chewed by rust. Along the lid, almost swallowed by scratches, was a faint compass rose. She prised it free, tugging until it came with a wet suck. It was heavier than it looked; a secret kind of weight.

She stood for a moment, listening to the quiet tap of drips from the gutter. Should she call someone? It could be nothing. She ran her thumb along the seam; it wouldn’t open, so she fetched a butter knife. The blade slid under the lid; the hinge groaned—a tired little sound. Inside, wrapped in a strip of faded cloth, lay a stack of papers and a thin silver key. The cloth was strangely dry. On the top sheet, in hurried ink, was a date she didn’t expect to see: 1942. Who had hidden this under ivy and time, and why had the storm chosen to give it back?

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

Option A:

Inside the roundhouse, firelight presses against the woven walls, rough and uneven, like a basket turned into a home. The roof slopes low, reeds and thatch stitched tight, and the smoke finds its way upwards in a thin, stubborn ribbon. Tall posts stand around me like dark ribs; they hold the whole world up. The air is warm, crowded with embers, with breath, with the close smell of earth. Shadows bend and stretch, obedient to the flames. It is dim, but not empty. It feels held.

At the centre, the hearth murmurs and licks the blackened stones. Sparks hop; little red insects. A clay pot simmers softly, a broth that smells of nettle and meat, and the steam kisses my face, damp and a bit salty. On one side there is work: a quern stone with a scatter of flour, a wooden bowl, a plait of onions, bronze glinting dull as a leaf in winter. On another, there is rest—hides piled into a low bed, a woven mat, a child's small doll made from straw.

The walls show their making: wattle ribs criss-crossed, daub pressed in by patient hands; thumbprints still sleep in the clay. Tools hang from pegs, a bone needle, a bundle of sinew, a hook for fish. When the wind noses the door curtain, the fire answers with a hiss, smoke tastes bitter on my tongue. The round room turns everything into a circle, sound and light going round and round, like time, like stories. Outside might be wild, cold, unknown, but here the centre holds, and it holds us too.

Option B:

By morning the world felt bruised after the storm. The lane was a chain of brown puddles; fences leaned, and the sky had that washed-out look of a sheet left too long on the line. The sea, which had roared like a lion in the dark, now licked at the shore as if nothing had happened. But everything had shifted. Sand had piled against the steps, and the old groyne lay half-buried, as if the beach had been ripped open.

They sent me down to see what the tide had thrown up: rope, bottles, our missing bucket. I went mostly to look. As I stepped over a tangle of kelp that smelt sharp and green, I saw it. A thin edge of metal, a wink in the grey. I crouched, brushed back wet sand with my numb knuckles, and it came free slower than a breath.

It was a small tin, palm-sized, rust mapped across it like continents. On the lid, under the grit, there was a scratched picture—maybe a bird, or a star. I shook it gently; something knocked inside. What if it belonged to someone, long gone? Grandad used to say the beach keeps secrets until it wants to tell them. Inside, I imagined: letters, coins, a photo. The hinge looked welded shut by salt. I tried with a fingernail, then with the key from my pocket; the metal squealed. I should of left it, I know, but the wind pushed at my back like a hand.

It shouldn’t have been there.

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

Option A:

Inside the roundhouse, firelight flickers and crawls over the walls. The walls are woven from hazel rods, packed with daub; the pattern is rough under the eye. Smoke hangs in a cloud, a soft, smokey veil that smells of peat and damp wool. The roof is low, I have to duck, black with soot and pin holes where day shows through like stars. Shadows swing as the flames breathe in and out, back and forth.

Beside the hearth sit clay pots, fat-bellied; a thin line of ash rims their mouths. A grinding stone leans near a basket of grain: when it turns it grates in a patient circle. Strips of hide are stretched on a peg, a wooden spear rests near the door, tools laid simple but ready. Above me the thatch whispers when the wind moves, and bunches of herbs hang drying, their smell sharp.

There is a bed of rushes and skins, low and tidy. Footsteps fall dull on the floor, and the fire pops, sending sparks that vanish in air. Outside the world might be wide and cold, yet here it feels close—held. It was wierdly calm, as if time sat down; as if it listens. Simple, smoky, safe.

Option B:

After the storm, the garden looked like a rushed sketch. Fences leaned, bins lay on their sides, leaves were pasted to the windows. The sky was thin and colourless; the air smelt of wet soil and salt. The ground had been clawed open by the rain, like a creature had raked it in the night.

Maya stepped carefully, broom in her hand. Curiosity prickled in her stomach. She moved branches, bits of plastic, a broken shoe—pieces of someone else’s life. Then she saw it.

One edge of metal glinted in the churned earth. She knelt and dug with her fingers; cold mud slid under her nails, gritty and strange. Was it a can, a toy, some old rubbish? Again she pulled, twisting.

Finally the ground let go with a wet sigh.

In her palm lay a small tin, dented and green like an old coin. A ribbon—grey, frayed—still clung to the hinge. It looked delicate, mysterious, like it had waited. What else had the storm hidden?

She tried the lid. It would not open at first, it stuck, stubborn, and her hands were shaking a little. She pressed her thumb and heard a faint click, it made her jump.

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

Option A:

The round house is dim and warm. The fire sits in the middle, it crackles, it spits like tiny sparks of rain, it keeps breathing. Smoke goes up and then hangs, slow and grey, under the roof. I watch the flames and they make the floor swim and the shadows jump.

The walls are woven sticks with mud pushed in. It feels rough, the mud flakes on my hand, like old bread.

There is a smell of ash and sheep, and a little meat. I listen and it is quiet, only the fire talking and my breath.

Beds are low, just straw with skins thrown over. A pot waits by the hearth, black and hot, and baskets sit in a small line, round, round and round. Tools lie on a peg, bone and wood, they look simple but they work, we was using them before dawn and I dont mind, it isnt cold in here.

Option B:

After the storm the town was quiet. The wind had cried all night and the rain beat the windows like pebbles. Leaves and twigs lay everywhere, the road looked like a brown river. My boots sank in the mud.

Me and Dad came out to see if the fence was broke. We was tired and cold. I poked the ground with a stick. The garden smelt like wet earth and soap.

Then I saw a glint. It was sticking out the dirt like a small tooth. A metal thing, a corner, a piece. I kneel down and pulled. It came up slow, covered in mud.

A small box, rusty, heavy, cold. There was a bird on the lid, or maybe a flower, I wasnt sure.

I shook it and something rattled. Its lid was stuck, it's old, like it didnt want to open. I didnt know why, or what was inside.

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

Option A:

The fire is in the middle and it crackles. The smoke goes up but it stays under the roof and my eyes sting. The walls are sticks and mud, rough and brown. I touch a pot, it is warm and black and it smell like stew. There is skins on the floor, scratchy, it makes a sound. The roof is low and round, the beams is thick, I duck my head. I hear a drip and a hiss from the fire, again and again. In the corner a bed maybe, or tools, it is just shadows. I think of school.

Option B:

The storm ended in the night. In the morning the garden was muddy and torn. The fence was broke. I went outside and my shoes sink in the wet ground the wind was still whispering. Then I seen something sticking out of the earth by the old tree, a little corner, it was brown and it was shiny too. I scraped at it with my nails and with a stick it felt cold like ice. The bus went past and my dog start barking, I didn't look. I pulled and the mud came away. It was a small metal box, very old, like a secret.