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.
- Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
- Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
- Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
- Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
- 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).
| Assessment Objective | Section A | Section B |
|---|---|---|
| AO1 | ✓ | |
| AO2 | ✓ | |
| AO3 | N/A | |
| AO4 | ✓ | |
| AO5 | ✓ | |
| AO6 | ✓ |
Answers
Question 1 - Mark Scheme
Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]
Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).
- 1.1 According to the whisper in Bertha's mind, what will happen next?: The house will become quiet and dark, and Bertha will be alone with another person – 1 mark
- 1.2 What will be quiet—quiet?: the house – 1 mark
- 1.3 According to the whisper in Bertha’s mind, what is expected to happen in the house soon?: The house will fall silent and be left in darkness – 1 mark
- 1.4 What is described as dark?: the room – 1 mark
Question 2 - Mark Scheme
Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 10 of the source:
6 She jumped up from her chair and ran over to the piano. “What a pity someone does not play!” she cried. “What a pity somebody does not play.”
How does the writer use language here to show Bertha’s sudden change in feelings? 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 note how the kinetic verbs 'jumped up' and 'ran over to the piano' abruptly move Bertha from passivity to urgent action, signalling a sudden emotional surge. It would also explore the parallel exclamatives 'What a pity someone does not play!' / 'What a pity somebody does not play'—emphasising the emotive 'pity', immediate repetition with slight lexical variation, and the heightened dialogue tag 'she cried'—to show restless insistence and longing.
The writer uses dynamic verbs and pace to capture Bertha’s sudden surge of feeling. The simple main clause “She jumped up from her chair and ran over to the piano” strings two kinetic verbs together via coordination, accelerating the rhythm. The abrupt “jumped up” suggests an impulse that can no longer be contained, while “ran” conveys urgency and purpose. The shift from the static “chair” to the purposeful “piano” externalises her inner movement, transforming an internal emotion into immediate action and signalling a decisive change in mood.
Furthermore, the writer crafts exclamative direct speech to reveal a jolt from elation to frustration. The exclamative construction “What a pity someone does not play!” uses the evaluative noun “pity” and the negative construction “does not” to foreground absence, undercutting her energy with sudden longing. The indefinite pronoun “someone/somebody” implies that any player would suffice, intensifying her yearning. The reporting verb “she cried” lifts the volume and pitch of the moment, suggesting an overflow of feeling rather than calm conversation.
Moreover, the immediate repetition, with the slight variation from “someone” to “somebody”, functions as anaphora that heightens insistence. The removal of the exclamation mark in the echo “What a pity somebody does not play.” tips the outburst into resignation, as if the excitement falters. Plosive alliteration in “pity” and “play”, echoed by “piano”, creates a percussive beat that mimics the absent music, sharpening her desire. Thus, the writer dramatises Bertha’s sudden swing from poised stillness to urgent, unsatisfied craving.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses dynamic verbs like “jumped” and “ran” to show Bertha’s sudden burst of energy, while the reporting verb “cried” and direct speech create immediacy. Repetition and exclamatory sentences in “What a pity someone does not play!” / “What a pity somebody does not play.” emphasise her heightened emotion and urgency to change the mood.
The writer uses dynamic verbs and a short, simple sentence to convey Bertha’s sudden change in feelings. The verbs “jumped up” and “ran” suggest an instant burst of energy, contrasting with the quiet passivity of “her chair”. The simple main clause “She jumped up from her chair and ran over to the piano” speeds the pace and mirrors her impulsive shift from calm to excitement.
Furthermore, the exclamative “What a pity someone does not play!” with its exclamation mark signals a rush of emotion. This shift from a plain declarative to an exclamative shows the sudden leap in feeling. The immediate repetition, slightly varied as “somebody”, is a form of parallelism that intensifies her agitation and insistence; she cannot let the thought go, which shows how quickly her mood has flared.
Moreover, the reporting verb “cried” conveys an outburst rather than a calm remark, reinforcing the suddenness of her feelings. In addition, the use of direct speech draws the reader into the moment and makes the change feel immediate and dramatic. Overall, these choices of language and sentence form present Bertha’s emotions shifting at speed, from stillness to a lively, urgent desire for music.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might spot the action verbs "jumped up" and "ran" in the simple sentence "She jumped up from her chair and ran over to the piano.", suggesting a sudden burst of energy and excitement. It would also note direct speech, repetition and exclamation in "What a pity someone does not play!" (echoed by "What a pity somebody does not play.") and the reporting verb "she cried", to show her feelings become urgent and intense.
The writer uses dynamic verbs to show Bertha’s sudden excitement. The simple sentence “She jumped up from her chair and ran over to the piano” uses “jumped” and “ran” to create fast movement, showing an immediate change from sitting to action.
Furthermore, the exclamatory sentence “What a pity someone does not play!” shows a burst of emotion. The exclamation mark and the reporting verb “she cried” suggest she is no longer calm, but urgent and eager.
Additionally, the repetition “What a pity somebody does not play” emphasises her new focus. By repeating the same words, with a slight change from “someone” to “somebody”, the writer shows insistence and intensity. The short direct speech makes the change feel immediate to the reader.
Overall, these language choices present Bertha’s sudden change in feelings from calm to excited longing for music.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might simply notice the action verbs "jumped up" and "ran" to show a sudden change in Bertha’s feelings, and the repetition "What a pity" with the reporting verb "she cried" and the exclamation mark shows her strong excitement.
The writer uses active verbs to show Bertha’s sudden feelings. “jumped up” and “ran” show quick movement, so she changes quickly from calm to excited. Furthermore, the repetition “What a pity someone does not play” is used. This repetition shows she really wants music, which shows her new feeling. Moreover, the exclamatory sentences and the speech tag “she cried” are language features. They suggest strong emotion and enthusiasm. Additionally, the short simple sentences speed up the moment, showing a sudden change of mood.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:
- Dynamic verbs show an instant surge of energy and feeling, signalling a sudden shift into action: jumped up
- Coordinating conjunction compresses actions into a rapid sequence, accelerating pace to mirror her quick emotional change: and ran over to
- Spatial shift from rest to focus suggests moving from passivity to urgent purpose, marking the change: from her chair
- Direct speech in an exclamative gives immediacy and intensity to her sudden feeling: play!
- Reporting verb conveys an emotional outburst rather than calm speech, amplifying the suddenness: she cried
- Immediate repetition of the clause underscores urgency and insistence as the feeling spills over: What a pity somebody
- Negation highlights frustration at absence, crystallising the new, dissatisfied emotion: does not
- Punctuation shift from exclamation to full stop suggests the peak of feeling then a slight settling: play.
- Cluster of plosive p-words intensifies emphasis and focus on music at the heart of her reaction: the piano
Question 3 - Mark Scheme
You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the end of a story.
How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of disorientation?
You could write about:
- how disorientation intensifies 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 how disorientation intensifies through structural shifts: Bertha’s sudden erotic awakening (something blind and smiling, ardently! ardently!) is repeatedly broken by interruptions (then then——, departing guests) and cross-cut with overlapping spaces and dialogue (she and Eddie moving noiselessly as, in the hall, she saw . . .), creating fractured pacing and an unstable tone. It would also analyse the climactic juxtaposition and unresolved closure—the silent tableau (I adore you) is immediately masked by surface normality (I’ll shut up shop), before the obsessive returning motif (Your lovely pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!) ends in anticlimactic stasis (as lovely as ever and as full of flower and as still), leaving Oh, what is going to happen now? unanswered and the reader disoriented.
One way the writer structures the passage to create disorientation is by juxtaposing Bertha’s sudden erotic awakening with prosaic leave-taking, producing a mismatch in tone and pace. We open inside her mind—“something strange and almost terrifying”—through free indirect discourse; she “jumped up” and urgent exclamations (“What a pity…”) quicken the pace. But that momentum is broken by social logistics: “victims of time and train,” handshakes, and a corridor of goodbyes. The faltering dash in “But then then—” typographically stumbles, signalling a psyche out of step with the room and unsettling the reader’s bearings.
In addition, the writer manipulates focalisation and spatial staging to delay and intensify Bertha’s anagnorisis. The sustained internal viewpoint pivots at “And she saw…”—an ellipsis that suspends time—before the hall tableau: “I adore you”/“To-morrow.” This illicit exchange is bracketed by Eddie’s trivial culture-talk (“Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?”), a jarring cross-cut that fractures tone and splits attention. Harry’s voice “very loud” overlays public normality on private betrayal, so sound and sight contradict, compounding the reader’s disorientation as Bertha’s reality fractures.
A further structural feature is the destabilising return to the pear tree motif. After Harry appears “extravagantly cool and collected,” Bertha’s incantatory “pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!” forms a dashed tricolon that enacts breathless panic. The final anticlimax—“as lovely as ever… as still”—offers cyclical closure without resolution. That clash between unchanged setting and Bertha’s inner volte-face leaves the narrative suspended and the reader unsettled. Thus, through shifts in focus, disrupted pacing, ellipsis, and a deceptive motif, the writer intensifies disorientation to its peak at the end.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify how disorientation builds through rapid shifts from Bertha’s heightened interior to abrupt social interruptions, noting the fractured pacing in "ardently! ardently!" and "then then——," the overlap of exits and entrances, and the sudden hall reveal where Harry mouths "I adore you" and whispers "To-morrow." It would also explain how repetition and a cyclical return to the motif—Bertha’s "pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!" followed by the anticlimax "as lovely as ever"—create an unsettling contrast between outward calm and inner upheaval.
One way the writer structures disorientation is by opening with Bertha’s interior focus through free indirect style: ‘something… whispered to her’ about the dark room. Ellipses and the interrupted syntax ‘But then then——’ cut her fantasy as guests mention the last train. This interruption shifts pace from slow, blissful build-up to brisk social bustle, wrong-footing both Bertha and the reader.
In addition, a sharp shift in focus produces a disorientating climax. The scene moves back and forth between Eddie’s murmured poem—‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?’—and Bertha’s silent view into the hall where ‘Harry… “I adore you.”’ This juxtaposition of trivial chatter with illicit passion fractures the scene. Alternation between whispers and Harry’s ‘very loud’ voice, quick farewells, and the whispered ‘To-morrow’ all accelerate and fragment the moment, so the structure mimics Bertha’s spinning thoughts and intensifies confusion at the end of the story.
A further structural feature is the circular motif of the pear tree. After the reveal, repetition—‘pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!’—and the return to ‘as lovely as ever’ create an anticlimax. External stillness contrasts with internal chaos, so the cool closing—‘I’ll shut up shop’—feels unresolved, leaving Bertha suspended between an unchanged setting and a changed understanding, and heightening disorientation.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer builds disorientation by quickly shifting from Bertha’s new desire (But now—ardently! ardently!) to the shocking hall reveal (I adore you), flipping the mood at the end. It would give simple examples like contrast in sound (noiselessly vs very loud), repetition (Your lovely pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!) and the final question (Oh, what is going to happen now?) to show an unsettled finish.
One way the writer structures disorientation is by starting with Bertha’s whisper and then jumping to polite talk. The voice, “Soon these people will go…,” sets an expectation of intimacy. But “She jumped up,” and rapid dialogue and italics interrupt. This change in focus and pace unsettles us like Bertha.
In addition, the build-up leads to a sudden reveal. After quiet, “noiseless” movements, the ellipsis in “And she saw . . .” delays the shock, then the hallway scene is the climax. It cuts back to Eddie’s “Tomato Soup” and Harry’s loud offer of a cab. This contrast between scenes and tones feels confusing.
A further structural feature is the ending’s repetition and lack of resolution. Bertha repeats “pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!” and asks, “Oh, what is going to happen now?” Yet the tree stays “as lovely as ever.” This contrast and anticlimax intensify disorientation at the end.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: By the end, the writer repeats words like "pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!" and uses ellipses ". . ." to show confusion, and Bertha even asks "Oh, what is going to happen now?". There is a sudden switch from her desire to the hall with "I adore you", which makes the ending feel disorienting.
One way the writer structures disorientation is by a change of focus. It jumps from Bertha’s sudden desire to the guests leaving, then straight to the hall, so the mood changes fast and the reader feels lost.
In addition, the use of dialogue and interruptions adds to it. The quiet poem talk is broken by the secret scene, “I adore you,” then Harry’s loud voice; short sentences and pauses make a stop-start pace.
A further structural feature is the ending. The repetition “pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!” and question leave things unresolved, so the disorientation is strongest at the end.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:
- Opening intrusion of interior whisper repositions focus from talk to Bertha’s mind, immediately unsettling the narrative frame ("something strange and almost terrifying").
- Abrupt action cut from erotic thought to social performance jolts pace and mood, increasing instability ("She jumped up").
- Fragmented syntax and repetition/dashes mirror a mind losing fixity, heightening disorientation ("ardently! ardently!").
- Departure announcements impose external time pressure that slices through her inner build-up, breaking momentum ("victims of time and train").
- Overlapping farewells and shifting positions accelerate movement across spaces, creating structural bustle ("on the move").
- Hushed choreography before the reveal slows time and amplifies tension through silence ("they had not made a sound").
- Cross-cutting contrasts Eddie’s lofty banalities with the clandestine tableau in the hall, disorienting the reader’s attention ("Tomato soup is so dreadfully eternal").
- The silent visual confession replaces dialogue with gesture, a sudden, shocking pivot of focus ("I adore you").
- Whiplash tonal switch from secrecy to public normality destabilises perspective as sound crashes back in ("very loud").
- Cyclic motif and unresolved closure (pear tree echo) leave her in an unanswered crisis, sealing disorientation with a direct question ("what is going to happen now?").
Question 4 - Mark Scheme
For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 86 to the end.
In this part of the source, Bertha’s happiness is destroyed in the moment she sees her husband with Miss Fulton. The writer suggests that Bertha’s feelings of love and bliss were based on a complete fantasy.
To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?
In your response, you could:
- consider your impressions of Bertha's discovery about Harry and Miss Fulton
- comment on the methods the writer uses to portray Bertha's devastation and disillusionment
- 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 the writer presents Bertha’s bliss as fantasy, analysing the ironic staging of betrayal with Harry’s "I adore you" and "hideous grin" paired with Miss Fulton’s "moonbeam fingers", and the symbolic refrain "Your lovely pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!", so that her "Oh, what is going to happen now?" is undercut by the tree "as lovely as ever" and "as still", revealing the writer’s viewpoint of self-constructed, unreciprocated ecstasy. It would also note tonal irony in Eddie’s "deeply true" and "dreadfully eternal" chatter and Harry’s "extravagantly cool and collected" poise, which accentuate Bertha’s devastation and disillusion.
I agree to a great extent that Bertha’s happiness is shattered the moment she sees Harry with Miss Fulton, and that the writer reveals her earlier bliss as a projection. However, Mansfield complicates the “destruction” by ending on the unchanged pear tree, suggesting Bertha’s ecstatic feeling was genuine to her even if its object was illusory.
The discovery is staged with cinematic precision: the ellipsis in “And she saw . . .” suspends time, mirroring the stunned intake of breath before the tableau snaps into focus. The proxemics and kinetic verbs are brutal: Harry “tossed the coat away,” “turned her violently,” and his “hideous grin” with “nostrils quivered” animalises him, collapsing Bertha’s idealised image of her husband. The non-verbal communication — “His lips said: ‘I adore you’” and “with her eyelids Miss Fulton said: ‘Yes’” — intensifies the voyeuristic horror: Bertha apprehends the truth not through sound but through gestures, which feel irrefutable. Ironically, the epithet “moonbeam fingers,” which earlier encoded Miss Fulton’s ethereal allure, now confirms her complicity. In this instant, the writer punctures Bertha’s bliss; it was anchored in a misreading of signals.
Mansfield then undercuts tragedy with social surface and irony. Eddie’s camp nonchalance — “Tomato soup is so dreadfully eternal” — runs in counterpoint to Bertha’s devastation, a deft juxtaposition that satirises the salon’s triviality and hints at the marital ennui Harry seeks to escape. Miss Fulton’s choreography is exquisitely cruel: she offers Bertha “the slender fingers to hold” (synecdoche foregrounding elegance) and murmurs, “Your lovely pear tree!” appropriating Bertha’s private symbol as a coded triumph. The simile “like the black cat following the grey cat” makes Eddie’s exit shadowy and furtive, while Harry is “extravagantly cool and collected,” a phrase whose hyperbole underscores his calculated performance. Dramatic irony and duplicity close in on Bertha from all sides.
In the final movement, Mansfield returns to the central motif. Bertha’s epizeuxis — “pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!” — signals a desperate clinging to the emblem that had fused her love, desire and aesthetic rapture. Her rhetorical cry, “Oh, what is going to happen now?” exposes psychic freefall. Yet the concluding tricolon — “as lovely as ever and as full of flower and as still” — refuses pathetic fallacy. The tree, unchanged, exposes the earlier bliss as projection: the symbol was Bertha’s creation, not a guarantee of reciprocal feeling.
Overall, I largely agree: the instant of seeing destroys Bertha’s marital bliss and reveals it as fantasy. Still, by letting the pear tree remain serenely itself, Mansfield preserves the authenticity of Bertha’s feeling even as she strips away its comforting illusion.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would largely agree that Bertha’s bliss was a fantasy, showing how the secret embrace—Harry’s "I adore you," Miss Fulton’s "moonbeam fingers," and his "hideous grin"—shatters her ideal, while the contrast with Eddie’s trivial "Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?" and the panicked repetition "pear tree—pear tree—pear tree" present her devastation and self-deception. It would also note the ambiguous close, as the pear tree remains "as lovely as ever and as full of flower and as still," implying her vision isn’t entirely destroyed.
I largely agree that Bertha’s happiness is shattered at the moment of discovery, and the writer exposes her earlier bliss as a seductive fantasy. The revelation is staged with structural suspense: “And she saw . . .” The ellipsis delays the shock, then the vivid action verbs—Harry “tossed” the coat and “turned her violently”—deliver it abruptly, mirroring Bertha’s abrupt emotional rupture. The contrasting imagery intensifies her devastation. Miss Fulton is ethereal—“moonbeam fingers,” a “sleepy smile”—while Harry’s “nostrils quivered” and his “hideous grin” feel almost animalistic. This clash between delicacy and ugliness punctures the idealised vision Bertha has been nurturing.
Crucially, the secrecy of the encounter is conveyed through the writer’s method of silent speech: “His lips said: ‘I adore you,’” and “with her eyelids Miss Fulton said: ‘Yes.’” This covert communication undercuts Bertha’s imagined intimacy with Miss Fulton. The sharp juxtaposition with Eddie’s airy talk—“‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?’… ‘dreadfully eternal’”—creates dramatic irony; trivial conversation continues while Bertha’s world collapses. Harry’s “very loud” voice and his “extravagantly cool and collected” manner show the cynical performance of normality, deepening her sense of betrayal.
The pear tree motif exposes the fantasy most clearly. Miss Fulton’s parting murmur, “Your lovely pear tree!”, is chillingly ironic: she appropriates the symbol Bertha cherishes, turning it into evidence of collusion. The simile “like the black cat following the grey cat” suggests furtive, feline stealth as Eddie trails her, keeping the mood of secrecy. Bertha’s repetition—“pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!”—and her cry, “Oh, what is going to happen now?” show panic and disillusionment. Yet the final image, “the pear tree was as lovely as ever… and as still,” is symbolic. The unchanged tree reveals that Bertha’s bliss was projected onto an indifferent symbol—a complete fantasy—though its serene persistence hints her illusion lingers even as her happiness is destroyed.
Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer dramatizes a sudden shattering and exposes Bertha’s bliss as self-invented, while allowing a haunting residue of the fantasy to remain.
Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree that the writer shows Bertha’s bliss was a fantasy, noting her happiness collapses when she sees Harry tell Miss Fulton "I adore you" and then a "hideous grin" with "To-morrow". It would give simple examples of method, mentioning the repetition "pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!", the calm image "as lovely as ever" and "as still", and Harry being "extravagantly cool and collected" to show her disillusionment.
I mostly agree that Bertha’s happiness is destroyed when she sees Harry with Miss Fulton, and the writer suggests her bliss was a fantasy.
At the moment of discovery, the verbs and adjectives are harsh: “turned her violently,” “hideous grin,” “nostrils quivered,” and Miss Fulton laid her “moonbeam fingers” on his cheeks. This creates shock and ugliness, destroying Bertha’s earlier “bliss.” The whispered dialogue “I adore you” and “To-morrow” makes it intimate and secret, which would make Bertha feel excluded and betrayed.
The writer also uses contrast and dramatic irony. While Eddie talks about “Tomato soup” being “eternal,” the affair is happening in the hall. This juxtaposition shows how Bertha’s happy party is actually false. Harry speaks “very loud,” acting “extravagantly cool and collected,” and Miss Fulton gives Bertha her “slender fingers,” which feels cold. This dreamy imagery adds to the idea of fantasy.
Finally, the pear tree is a symbol. Miss Fulton says “Your lovely pear tree!”, and Bertha repeats “pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!”. This repetition shows panic and clinging. When she runs to the window, the tree is “as lovely as ever… and as still.” This structural ending suggests that the perfect image remains, but it no longer matches reality. So Bertha’s earlier love and bliss were based on an image, almost a fantasy, not the truth about her marriage.
Overall, I agree to a large extent: her happiness is shattered by the scene, and the symbolism and contrast suggest her bliss was built on illusion.
Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 1 response would mostly agree, noting Bertha sees Harry tell Miss Fulton "I adore you" with a "hideous grin", and then pointing to "the pear tree was as lovely as ever" to say her earlier bliss was just a fantasy.
I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, Bertha’s happiness is broken when she sees Harry with Miss Fulton. The writer shows this in the moment she “saw” them in the hall. He “tossed the coat away” and “turned her violently” and said “I adore you.” Miss Fulton’s “moonbeam fingers” and Harry’s “hideous grin” are strong imagery. The strong verbs and adjectives make the scene shocking, so Bertha’s bliss collapses.
After that, the writer contrasts the secret with the polite talk. Harry says loudly about the cab, and Miss Fulton says “Good-bye” and “Your lovely pear tree!” This makes them seem fake. The simile “like the black cat following the grey cat” shows how they slip off together. The pear tree is a metaphor for Bertha’s feelings.
At the end, Bertha repeats “pear tree—pear tree—pear tree!” and runs to the window. The repetition shows her panic. But the tree is “as lovely as ever and as full of flower and as still.” This contrast suggests her happiness was a fantasy, because the symbol looks perfect while the truth is not. Overall, I agree to a large extent.
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:
- Judgement: the clandestine kiss annihilates Bertha’s happiness in an instant; the silent declaration strips away her illusion (I adore you).
- Idea—modern “openness” as fantasy: her belief they were good pals collapses as the scene exposes secrecy and betrayal, undercutting her self-image of being “modern.”
- Foreshadowing of collapse: Bertha senses an ending before the discovery, signalling the shattering to come (taking leave of them for ever).
- Juxtaposition/dramatic irony: trivial aesthetic chat heightens the cruelty of what she witnesses, intensifying the shock (Tomato soup is so dreadfully eternal).
- Heightened erotic expectation (misdirected): the ecstatic repetition shows her bliss swelling toward a fantasy that reality instantly overturns (ardently! ardently!).
- Visceral characterisation: Harry’s passion reads as ugly and predatory, destroying Bertha’s idealised love-image (hideous grin).
- Duplicity/performance: his public composure right after the kiss exposes calculated deceit, deepening disillusion (extravagantly cool and collected).
- Complicity and certainty: Miss Fulton’s cool assent makes the betrayal deliberate and final, leaving Bertha’s bliss untenable (with her eyelids).
- Symbolism and ironic stasis: the world’s beauty persists while her inner world collapses, implying her bliss was projection (as lovely as ever).
- Aftershock/uncertainty: the immediate rhetorical plea captures devastation and a voided future, supporting “happiness destroyed” (what is going to happen now?).
Question 5 - Mark Scheme
A publisher of walking guides is creating a new online section for creative pieces.
Choose one of the options below for your entry.
- Option A: Describe a secluded cove from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:
- Option B: Write the opening of a story about getting lost and then finding the way.
(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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.
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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 cove holds its breath. Between two bastions of rock, the sea gathers itself in a narrow blue oval, calm at the surface. Light pours in carefully, as if measured: a spill of silver that settles on the water’s back and climbs the cliff faces, examining scars and seams. Salt ribbons the air; an iodine tang threads the tongue, clean and cold. Waves arrive in increments—small, assured, almost courteous—then uncurl and withdraw, uncurl and withdraw: the steady metronome of a place that has learned patience.
On either side, the cliffs rear like the flanks of sleeping creatures. Basalt is banded with quartz; lichen maps continents; thrift clings wherever a pocket of earth pretends to be soil. Wind worries the ledges, coaxing a dry whisper; down here, the sound is softer: water chinks the shingle; a loose stone ticks; a gull—singular, disdainful—combs the air, writes a ragged comma, and is gone. In the sheer shade, coolness collects—deliberate, not bleak.
Closer, the shore is not a uniform sweep but a palimpsest. Sand—fine as flour, then suddenly coarse with crushed shell—holds the delicate hieroglyphs of sandhoppers and the pricked stipple of rain that fell earlier. A strandline, ropey with bladderwrack, parcels out treasure: driftwood bleached to bone; a glass bead the colour of a bottle’s ghost. Rock pools pocket the margins like forgotten mirrors; anemones purse and open while tiny fish flicker like misplaced punctuation, too quick to fix with the eye.
A path nobody advertises zigzags down the cliff, no more than a suggestion stitched with rabbit tracks. Here, a rusted ring bolts into stone; there, a tangle of net dries, emerald dulling to bottle green. The cove does not refuse company, but it is particular. Voices from the headland arrive attenuated, losing their edges on the wind; footsteps are swallowed by the soft conspiratorial give of sand. If paradise exists, it might borrow this geometry—this bowl of solitude—though the word is too glossy and, perhaps, too easy.
Time, in this pocket, lengthens. The light changes by degrees, silver warming to a paler gold; a trickle threads the sand and becomes a channel; the shy sea grows more candid. Tide breathes in. The cliffs, which seemed absolute, soften as their ankles are stitched with foam, then stitched again. For a moment the world feels held, gathered, exact. And then, as always, the tide leans further, reclaiming sequins and secrets; water writes its careful line across the bay. The cove exhales.
Option B:
Dusk. The hour when colours recede and the city seems to shuffle its landmarks like a croupier; street names glimmer and then retreat; corners exchange faces; confidence shrinks to conjecture.
As the last bus sighed away, I tightened my scarf and consulted the map on my phone. One per cent. A fragile island of colour in a black sea; then, with a curt flick, nothing. Everything was simple in theory: left at the bakery, over the canal, fifth right. Simple. Manageable. Wrong.
The bakery, with its morning warmth and sugared air, had long since sealed its shutters; the canal, which had faithfully glinted all afternoon, hid beneath a skin of shadow. Fifth right turned into three narrow alleys and a mews that pretended to be a road, each one insistently unhelpful. The street plan curled around me like punctuation in a difficult sentence—commas piling up where I wanted a full stop.
I have always prided myself on knowing where I am. Dad taught me tricks: moss favours the north side; the sun is a slow coin you can spend only once each day. In the woods, that worked. Here, between brick and glass, the compass refused to behave. The sky was a lidded jar; the wind, circulating between buildings, had no intention of pointing anywhere. My footsteps sounded too loud, then not at all. A scooter stitched past; a cat poured itself through a railing; laughter floated from somewhere behind me, not unkind, but still my stomach quivered.
Kings Yard. Kitson Yard. Kite Yard. The signs layered over one another, a palimpsest of paint and promises, K after K after K. I chose left, then left again, believing in the old myth that repetition conjures safety; it delivered only a quietly panicking loop. I stopped—deliberately, decisively, perhaps a shade theatrically—and let the city speak. What if finding the way was less about knowing, more about listening?
First, a smell: metallic, green, faintly weedy—the river’s breath, though here it was only the canal holding its own under bridges. Then, a sound: a bell, slow and steady, three measured notes, then a pause, then three again. St Mary’s. I knew it. Sound is a straight line when sight is not. I angled towards it, following the drag of water and the metronome of the bell, past a mural of a heron with a bicycle wheel for a crown—mine, from two summers ago—its beak aiming like an arrow.
The towpath unspooled at my feet, slick and sure; lights stitched themselves into the water; the air acquired that particular cold that belongs to open space. I quickened, not rushing, but recalibrated. Of course my key was in the wrong pocket; of course I fumbled. Yet the city had resolved itself: not a maze now, but a map. I crossed the small iron bridge, the rail cool against my palm, and as the main road widened ahead—buses hissing, windows bright—I felt it click inside me, the quiet notch of direction. Lost, then not. Away, then home. And, inexplicably, forward.
- Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)
Option A:
The cove hides until you are almost inside it. The path is a seam pulled through gorse and thrift, a cautious descent that brushes your ankles with resin and pollen. Only at the last bend does the land fall away; the cliffs shoulder in, black with old lichen and wet seams, and the water forms a quiet bowl. It smells of wet stone, of kelp, of the clean edge of salt, and it feels as though the place keeps its counsel, as if sound arrives here and changes its mind.
Sand slopes inward in a pale crescent, silk-fine yet gritty at the knuckles. Mica glints in it; flecks flare like fish scales when the sun tilts. The wind writes cursive across the surface, lines erased as soon as made. Shells: fluted scallops, limpet cups, tiny whorls pale as milk teeth. A single rope of bladderwrack lies like punctuation. There are no footprints but the neat pockmarks of gulls; even they hesitate where the shallows begin, toes splayed, then turned.
Between the rocks the pools keep smaller skies. Their surfaces hold clouds whole, then shiver at the skitter of a prawn or the squint of light. Anemones open and close like slow fists, red and plum, the sea’s cautious handwriting. Barnacles click faintly—like frost cracking in a pane. A crab (no bigger than a coin) lifts one eye on its stalk, tests the water with a claw, and vanishes under a ledge so narrow you would swear nothing lives there at all.
Sound is measured here. The sea breathes in and out, in and out; each arrival frills the lip of the cove, each withdrawal combs it smooth. The cliffs take the noise and fold it back on itself, so what remains is a hush you can stand inside. A cormorant holds a tooth of rock, wings cruciform, the dark geometry of patience; gulls wheel above, scribbling their signatures into the glare. The air is clean, almost medicinal: iodine, salt, a faint metallic tang; it dries on the tongue and brightens the lungs.
By late afternoon the sun leans between the headlands and sets the water to a metallic blaze—then softens it, as if the cove has drawn a thin veil. Shadows rib the sand, slow bars of shade. Somewhere beyond the rocks the wider ocean shoulders, steady and indifferent. I count the long breaths… three, four… and decide it is not emptiness but belonging. Leaving is like closing a book too soon: the path kinks back through bracken, the world resumes its ordinary volume, and when I glance over my shoulder the cove looks smaller, almost harmless (which isn’t quite true). It will keep its quiet; I will keep the map of it—salt-grit, light, and that small, unarguable stillness.
Option B:
Dusk. The hour when the city loosens its edges; street names soften, corners lean into shadow, and every route looks almost right. My plan was modest: off the bus, along the main road, second right, past the bakery. A half-hour walk mapped in neat blue lines, my phone glowing like a small, obedient lighthouse.
It was not obedient for long. The screen flickered; the arrow spun; the battery icon thinned to a sliver. Rain that had been a rumour became precise—fine threads stitching the air—and the blue lines grew slick under my thumb. I told myself to keep moving, to trust the sense of north I carried, and I turned, then turned again, into a corridor of brick where scaffolding clinked and tarpaulins breathed.
Left, then left. Or was it? The numbers on doorways marched out of sequence as if a prankster had rearranged them for mischief. Road signs wore graffiti like masks. A cat slid under a gate and stared as if it knew the way but would never say. I passed the bakery I was meant to pass; it was closed, dark as an unlit stage. The smell of warm sugar I’d promised myself did not exist; only damp cardboard and the mineral taste of rain.
I thought of being six and letting go of my mother’s hand in a supermarket—how the cereal aisle multiplied like a hall of mirrors; how panic feels both hot and cold at once. I was older now (ostensibly sensible), but anxiety has its own grammar; it made my steps shorter, then faster, then untidy. Why hadn’t I asked the driver to say when we reached my stop? Pride, probably, and the pretend certainty of a map.
Listen, I told myself. The city speaks if you let it. Somewhere to my right a river kept its slate-coloured voice; a bus sighed; a bell counted seven, then a patient eighth. I remembered: the hall where I was going had a clock tower—thin, decorative, a finger against the sky. I scanned between roofs and wires until I found it: a pale, circular face, floating above a tangle of chimneys.
There it was: not a miracle, exactly—more an anchor. The arrow in my head settled. I turned towards the tower, street by street, repeating the names aloud like charms—Myrtle, then Archer, then Crescent—until a glow spread on the pavement and the damp light softened. Not found, exactly; not yet. But heading, finally, the right way. The difference was everything.
- Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)
Option A:
The cove kept its own secrets, tucked between two hunched shoulders of rock as if hiding from the wide, talkative ocean. Light pooled in a pale oval on the sand; the rest lay in tender shade, cool and still. Wind arrived softly, bringing the clean sting of salt and kelp; the air tasted mineral, faintly metallic. No road could be seen from here, no path shouted its presence—only a narrow track of prints leading down, then fading. Time almost stood still.
The cliffs leaned in, dark and furrowed, their faces pitted like old bread and lit by threads of lichen. In their cracks, stubborn tufts of sea-pink and wiry grass clung on. Water had scrubbed the stone smooth in places; elsewhere it left jagged teeth that threw torn shadows. A shallow cave opened like a sleepy mouth, damp with moss. Every sound carried differently in this bowl, hushed, returned.
It came forwards and backwards, forwards and backwards, with a sound like gentle sweeping. Each wave laid down a thin lace of foam, then gathered it up again, undecided. The water was a green you could almost drink, glassy over the inshore rocks, bruised to indigo further out. Pebbles clicked and rolled; a slow glug rose from under a ledge.
Here small things became important: a shell polished to milk; a feather stippled with salt; a shard of bottle smoothed to sea-jewel. A crab tested the world with delicate claws, retreating like a shy actor when my shadow crossed. Far above, gulls wheeled as quiet as paper, rarely crying. A length of driftwood lay at the tideline—bleached, knotty; a wobbly seat that left damp stripes.
Beyond the black gate of the headlands the day kept going; here, minutes slowed, stretched thin as seaweed. The sun edged lower and the cove changed with the light. Shadows crept up the sand, the rock faces flushed, and the water turned mirror-flat for a breath. Then a breeze lifted—small ripples ran like writing across the bay, and the hidden place withdrew into itself again, private, patient. I left no mark but a row of prints that the next neat wave would tidy away.
Option B:
Dusk unwound across the unfamiliar streets; windows blinked awake while rain stitched silver lines between lampposts. My phone quivered on 1%, offered a flicker of maps, and died—without it, the city drew itself inward, alleys knotting into a question I could not answer.
I was lost.
Left, right, left: the same noodle bar, the same mural of a fox with too-bright eyes. Signposts leaned, their letters gleaming and smudged; shopfronts muttered shut as grates rattled down. I hugged my light coat—my scarf (ridiculously thin) had become a damp ribbon—while a bus roared past and flung gutter-water at my shoes. At first, I tried reason: if the station sat east, the traffic would thicken that way, the wind would come against me; however, every corner gave me only more corner. I should have turned back, I didn’t.
Then, in the bustle of drizzle and neon, something steadied me. A smell: warm, yeasty, sugared—bread. I remembered the bakery I’d noticed earlier by a square of market stalls, and the market had been mentioned on the paper map tacked at the shelter. Where there are markets, there are signs; where there are signs, there are maps. It wasn’t much, but it was a thread.
I followed my nose. Past a man closing umbrellas like dark wings; past a doorway where two cyclists argued in whispers. The sweetness thickened, then shifted, and a new scent slid along the street, subtle and metallic. Grandad used to say, joking, find the water and you’ll find the centre. A low draught curled round my ankles—cooler, a little dank—as if the river itself was breathing. I turned downhill.
Bells tolled somewhere—six, deliberate—and in the pause between the chimes I saw it: a ribbon of black glass beyond the buildings, rails tracing it like stitches. The river meant the bridge; the bridge meant the square; and the square meant, finally, the station. The map, once outsourced to a screen, rearranged itself inside my head.
The streets stopped conspiring. They opened. And I walked on, not quickly, but certain, as the rain softened and the way ahead began—quietly—to show itself.
- Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)
Option A:
Between two dark shoulders of rock, the cove curls inward like a held breath. The cliffs are rough and old, with streaks of iron and damp moss; the sand lies pale, as if asleep. Sunlight slides down the black faces in thin ladders, touching pools and shells, leaping off when a cloud passes. It is a quiet place—a pause in the shore, where the sea speaks in smaller words.
The smell of salt and tar hangs in the air. The water moves in a careful rhythm: in and out, in and out, smoothing the seams it just made. Each wave is low, transparent at the edges, ribboned with froth that vanishes into the sand. There are only a few sounds: a thin gull call, a drip from a ledge, the hush that follows. Sometimes a pebble clicks; sometimes seaweed sighs around a stone, like someone turning in sleep.
Along the lip of the tide, small worlds collect. A pool holds a tiny forest of fronds; beads of air tremble on their tips. A crab ticks sideways with lifted claws. Striped shells lie broken, pearly on the inside, cracked and scoured outside. An old rope is half-buried, stiff with salt; a driftwood shard points at the water like a pale finger. Above, the cliffs lean closer than they need to; a dark, oval cave mouth watches everything.
Light changes here. When the sun comes out, the water is like glass and shadows are sharp; when it hides, the cove turns a grey that makes the sand glow faintly. Time slows. Footprints I leave are soon blurred, and then they are gone, taken as softly as they were made. The place is secluded, not cut off; it seems to wait for whoever finds it, keeping their secrets as carefully as the tide keeps its stones.
Option B:
The path split like ribs under the dark trees, and I picked the right-hand one because it looked clearer. It wasn’t. Brambles snagged my coat, the map flapped in my hands like a restless bird, and the last smear of daylight drained away between the trunks. The wood pressed in, damp and breathless. Somewhere, a pigeon thudded out of a branch; my heart copied it.
I turned the map sideways, then upside down. North stayed a stubborn secret. The phone in my pocket showed one thin bar and 3%—useless light, not a guide. I could go back, but when I glanced behind me the path had dissolved into the same leaf-muddled brown. The smell of wet earth clung to me. I listened and heard only my own steps, too loud, and the tiny drip, drip of water from the last rain. It felt like the trees were watching, though I knew they were only trees.
Mum’s voice came back, a simple rule: keep the river on your left. I stood very still. There was a hush, then a faint, steady murmur to my right. Wind? Water? I trusted it anyway. One step, then another: careful, slow, certain. The ground tilted, and roots curled like knuckles under the soil. I slid, caught myself, and slid again. The map was soggy now; my breath steamed in small ghosts.
Then—somewhere ahead—light. Not sun, but a paler patch between the trunks. I pushed through a thin hedge and burst onto a track scored with tyre marks. The noise grew clearer, the low, constant hum of a road; relief loosened my shoulders. A wooden fingerpost leaned at a doubtful angle, its letters faded but legible enough: Village 1 mile.
I laughed, a short, shaky sound, and turned towards it. I wasn’t out yet, but I had found the way.
- Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)
Option A:
The cove hides behind two hunched cliffs, like shoulders turned inwards to keep a secret. The path down is a rough staircase of grit and roots; it crumbles and makes your steps slow. Sunlight does not fall straight here, it trickles in sideways, a pale spill over rock. Between the cliffs the sea flashes in strips, then darkens where the shadow sits. The air smells of salt and something green, like crushed seaweed. I stand at the mouth and pause, as if I am about to enter a room.
Inside the cove the sand is pale and fine; it powders underfoot. It is cool where the cliff leans its shade, warm in the open, like the back of a sleepy cat. Pebbles glint like wet coins and the water leaves filigree foam around them, backwards and forwards, again and again. It licks the shore then pulls back, tugging at little shells, whispering to itself. A gull folds over the bay and drops a cry that vanishes into the stone.
Beyond the dark teeth of rock the world feels far away: no cars, no news, no hurry. Here the wind is softer—it nudges, it tastes of brine. You could talk, but you don’t want to, the cove is speaking (if you listen). It counts the waves, it keeps time. Who else knows it's there? For a moment my thoughts empty out, like pockets turned inside-out, and the cove holds them; then the shadow grows, and the sea goes on working, patient, certain.
Option B:
Evening. The time when streets change; shadows stretch, names blur. I stood at the wrong bus stop with my rucksack biting my shoulder, and my phone flickered once, then died, blank as a stone. Puddles held sky and the streetlights hummed. I turned my collar up. The wind pushed at my back, it smelled of rain and chip paper. Left, right, left—I tried one path, then another. The map in my head was flimsy, like a leaflet folding the wrong way.
At first, I walked fast because moving felt brave. Then I slowed. The alleyway narrowed; graffitti crawled along brick like seaweed. Windows blinked; a dog barked twice. I thought of Mum's directions: past the bakery, over the bridge, keep the river on your left. But the river was a rumour in the dark. My thinking did circles. I checked the street name and the letters swam—everything familiar looked strangely different.
I stopped.
Silence gathered around me like a coat. In that stillness I listened: not for buses and voices, but for something steady. There—a trickle, soft and certain. Water. I followed it between bins, past a leaning fence. The air cooled; the smell turned clean, slightly metal. A railing with peeling blue paint; the bakery sign, a warm loaf, glowed ahead. Small, but clear.
Finally, the street opened and the river lay there, dark and sure; my chest loosened. I turned so the current kept on my left—just like she said.
I wasn't home yet. But I knew the way.
- Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)
Option A:
At first, the secluded cove hides itself down a narrow path between two dark cliffs. The rock faces are jagged and wet, they shine where the late sun squeezes through. Pale sand lies in gentle hollows; it holds the print of my shoes like a soft memory. Sea water rests in shallow pools, crystal clear; delicate fish flicker between pebbles. Gulls drift as silouettes above the rim, slow and lazy.
Now the smells and sounds arrive: salt and seaweed, sharp, clean, a little sour. When I touch the water it is cold and it bites my skin, then it is gone. Waves move in and out, in and out. They leave lines of shells, and the click of them is like very light rain. A crab lifts its claws like a tiny soldier and scuttle under a stone. The rock pool is a small world—green weed, sand, trapped sky.
Later, the light turns softer. The cliffs are like broken teeth; they lean over the sand. However the cove still feels safe and tranquil. The tide creeps closer and closer, then it creeps back like it changed its mind. I leave, but the cove stays waiting, watching.
Option B:
Evening slid over the estate; orange lamps blinked on and made the pavements look wet. I took a short cut after football, a path between hedges supposed to save time. It bent left, then right—left again—and every corner looked the same. My phone map spun, the blue dot dithering. Which turn had I missed? I told myself to keep calm, to keep walking, but the air felt thicker.
First I tried to retrace, past the bins, but the alley narrowed and the wind pushed old flyers at my legs like paper fish. Lost. My heart knocked at my ribs. I tried to remember Dad’s directions; I should have stayed on the main road. Then a smell found me—warm, salty, comforting. Chips. I followed it. A buzzing sign hummed above a shop; a man swept salt with a shiny scoop, and steam lifted into the street.
Past the shop the road opened out. I saw the church spire ahead, thin as a finger pointing, and I remembered: the High Street runs by the church. Finally a bus hissed round the corner, the 82, and I knew its route from home. I laughed, a little shaky, but lighter. Not home yet, but the way was there, clear as a pencil line.
- Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)
Option A:
The cove is quiet. It hides between two big dark cliffs. The sand is pale and soft. My feet sink and make small prints, they look like coins in the wet. The sea comes in and out, in and out.
It smells like salt and seaweed. The rocks are sharp, like teeth; like giants watching. A little pool sits in the corner, it shines like glass and shows the sky. I touch the water. It is cold, it bites, I pull back and laugh a bit. The waves is slow today and the foam crawls over my toes.
I stand and listen, the wind goes round the cliff and through the grass, it makes a hush noise and I close my eyes. Some small crabs run under a rock.
No one is here, it feels secret, it feels like it is mine!
Option B:
Morning. The sky was low and grey. I held my small map but my phone died and the line went black. I looked down the long street and every house looked the same, red doors, little walls, a tree with no leaves. I turned left, then right, then left again, like a slow dance. My heart was loud. I was lost.
I should of turned left at the shop but I didnt, so I went past the bus stop and the corner shop and the dog that barked and followed me for a bit, and I thought I would cry, I didnt cry.
I asked a man. He just shrugged and kept going.
The wind pushed on my back, its like a maze and my feet hurt and I walked and walked and walked. Great.
Then I saw a small blue sign with my street on it, it shined in the weak sun. I went slow at first, then faster. I followed the arrow and I knew the way again.
At the end of the road was the red postbox by my gate, there it was, home. I breathed out and smiled.
- Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)
Option A:
The cove is small and quiet. It is like a bowl with dark rocks around it. The sand is pale and soft and a bit wet. Water comes in and goes out, back and forward, back and forward. It makes a low sound, shh shh, like it is telling me to stop. The air taste of salt. My shoes get sandy and my socks are wrong, I should of took them off. A lone bird sits on a rock. I look back. The sun is low and it makes a strip of light. Then a cloud comes, and it feels colder and I think of home.
Option B:
Morning. The path was long and the air cold. I went out with my bag and a small map but the lines looked like spaghetti and I could not think right. I walk and walk, left then right, the houses all the same, my phone low. I thought about my dog and if he missed me, also I was hungry. I asked a man he didnt know me. I felt stupid, becuase I should know. A bus went by fast. Then I saw a sign it had my street. I followed it slow and I found the way home at last.