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).

• What are we told to 'take a look at'?: the home – 1 mark
• According to the narrator, what is wrong with the letterbox and the doorbell at the building's entrance?: Neither the letterbox nor the doorbell works. – 1 mark
• Where was the letter-box?: in the vestibule below – 1 mark
• According to the narrator, what is true of the letter-box and the electric button in the building's vestibule?: Both are present but unusable. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 101 to 110 of the source:

101 So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a

106 garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

How does the writer use language here to present Della’s hair and her 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 identify how the sensuous adjectives 'rippling and shining' and the simile 'like a cascade of brown waters', together with the personifying metaphor 'made itself almost a garment for her', elevate Della’s hair as abundant, valuable, and identity-defining. It would also explore the shift from expansive description to brisk, shorter declaratives—'nervously and quickly,' 'faltered,' and 'a tear or two splashed' on the 'worn red carpet'—to show her anxious hesitation and the pathos of impending sacrifice.

The writer idealises Della’s hair through a luxuriant water simile and fluid sound patterns. Described as “rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters,” the simile elevates her hair to the grandeur of a waterfall, suggesting abundance, vitality and natural beauty. The present participles “rippling” and “shining” imply continuous movement, while the soft sibilants in “shining” and “cascade” echo the hush of flowing water. Even the dynamic verb “fell about her” presents the hair as enveloping and intimate, emphasising its sheer volume and presence.

Moreover, personification and metaphor deepen this portrayal: it “reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her.” By attributing agency to the hair (“made itself”), the writer presents it as an almost living entity, protective and precious. The noun “garment” connotes modesty and identity, as if her hair clothes her; the hedge “almost” suggests both fullness and a tentative awareness that this protection may soon be relinquished.

Furthermore, Della’s conflicted feelings emerge through adverbial precision and pacing. The temporal connective “And then” propels the action, while “she did it up again nervously and quickly” uses a syndetic adverbial pair to reveal anxious haste. In contrast, “Once she faltered… and stood still” slows the rhythm; these simple declaratives and paratactic sequencing mirror her hesitation and emotional struggle.

Additionally, the understated “a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet” intertwines emotion with the earlier water imagery. The verb “splashed” gives sudden impact, while “worn red carpet” juxtaposes poverty (“worn”) with the colour of love and sacrifice (“red”), crystallising her sorrow and the depth of what her beautiful hair signifies.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain that the simile "rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters" and the metaphor "made itself almost a garment for her" present Della’s hair as luxurious and valuable, while the adverbs "nervously and quickly", the verb "faltered", and the image "a tear or two splashed" on the "worn red carpet" show her anxiety and sadness, noting how the move from flowing description to shorter, more direct sentences mirrors her hesitation.

The writer uses a vivid simile to present Della’s hair as flowing and precious. It is “rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters”: the present participles create continuous movement, while “cascade” suggests power and abundance. The natural image of “brown waters” gives it richness, and the adjective “beautiful” signals its value.

Furthermore, personification and metaphor shape its significance. When it “made itself almost a garment for her,” the hair seems to have agency, and the metaphor of a “garment” implies length and protection. The tentative “almost” hints at hyperbole, emphasising how extraordinary it is.

Additionally, the writer’s choices reveal Della’s feelings. The adverbs “nervously and quickly” convey anxiety and urgency, and the verbs “faltered” and “stood still” slow the pace to show doubt. The understatement “a tear or two” suggests she tries to restrain her sorrow, yet “splashed” gives the tears impact, and the “worn red carpet” carries connotations of poverty and love. Finally, the move from a short simple sentence to a longer, complex one with “while” mirrors her wavering. Overall, these choices present the hair’s luxuriant beauty and Della’s anxious conflict.

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 the simile like a cascade of brown waters and the adjective beautiful, with the image that it is almost a garment, to show her hair is long, flowing and special. The adverbs nervously and quickly, the verb faltered, and the detail a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet present her as anxious and sad, hinting they are poor.

The writer uses a simile to present Della’s hair. The phrase “rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters” creates an image of flowing, glossy hair, making it seem natural and precious. The adjective “beautiful” shows admiration, and “It reached below her knee” emphasises how long it is.

Moreover, personification in “made itself almost a garment for her” suggests the hair is so thick it can cover her, showing its importance to her.

Additionally, the adverbs “nervously and quickly” and the verb “faltered” reveal her anxious, hesitant feelings. The image “a tear or two splashed” on the “worn red carpet” shows her sadness and makes the moment feel real. The shorter sentence “And then she did it up again” reflects her quick, tense action. Overall, the writer presents her hair as precious and her feelings as mixed and emotional.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses a simile and positive words like “beautiful hair”, “rippling and shining”, and “like a cascade of brown waters”, plus “almost a garment”, to show her hair is long and lovely. Her feelings are shown by “nervously and quickly”, “faltered”, and “a tear or two”, suggesting she is worried and upset.

The writer uses a simile to show Della’s hair, “rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters.” This makes the hair seem long and flowing and beautiful. Furthermore, the writer uses personification/metaphor: it “made itself almost a garment for her”, which shows it is so long it is like clothes. Additionally, the adverbs “nervously and quickly” present her feelings, showing she is anxious. Moreover, the verb “faltered” and “a tear or two splashed” show she is upset and about to cry. Overall, the writer shows her hair as lovely and her feelings as sad.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Simile likens the hair to flowing water, suggesting abundance, movement, and natural beauty (like a cascade of brown waters)
• Present participles animate the image, conveying continuous motion and lustre (rippling and shining)
• Gentle verb choice implies softness and grace as the hair envelops her (fell about her)
• Extremity of length highlights rarity and value, making the hair feel monumental (reached below her knee)
• Personification turns the hair into clothing, stressing richness and identity (made itself almost a garment)
• Paired adverbs reveal anxious urgency in her actions, reflecting conflicted feelings (nervously and quickly)
• Sequential shift from description to action signals a decisive, controlled gesture (did it up again)
• The verb and time phrase capture a brief wavering; the extended clause slows pace to mirror her pause (faltered for a minute)
• Understated quantity and dynamic verb intensify restrained sorrow as emotion breaks through (a tear or two splashed)
• Concrete colour/texture detail grounds her emotion and adds poignancy (worn red carpet)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how empathy is built through structural shifts: from the staccato repetition of "One dollar and eighty-seven cents" and the narrator’s directive "take a look at the home" that zooms out to the "$8 per week" flat, to the turning point "Suddenly she whirled" which accelerates pace toward the escalating sacrifice—revealing "Della’s hair", the transaction "Twenty dollars"—while time markers and refrains ("Christmas", "Her Jim", "the next two hours tripped by") and tonal movement (from "sobs, sniffles, and smiles" to resolve) deepen reader empathy.

One way in which the writer has structured the opening to create empathy is by frontloading repetition and temporal pressure. The refrain "One dollar and eighty-seven cents" recurs with "Sixty cents... in pennies" and "Three times Della counted it", then "the next day would be Christmas." This slows pace, fixes our attention on scarcity, and places us beside her counting, so her "howl" feels inevitable.

In addition, authorial intrusion shifts focus outward. The omniscient voice pauses for "moral reflection" and bids us "take a look at the home", inventorying the letter-box "into which no letter would go" and the electric button "from which no mortal finger could coax a ring"; later direct address ("Perhaps you have seen...") recruits us as witnesses. This zoom-out situates her distress within poverty; a brief analepsis to a "former period of prosperity" contrasts $30 with$20, deepening pathos as affection ("greatly hugged") endures.

A further device is the turning point marked by "Suddenly". Focalisation tightens as Della "whirled… before the glass", then a digression on the "two possessions" (Jim’s watch and Della’s hair) foreshadows her choice and raises the stakes. Parallel movement markers ("On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat") quicken the pace into action, so "Will you buy my hair?" feels shocking and inevitable.

Finally, temporal compression ("the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings") shifts from scene to summary, releasing tension. That upbeat elision, set against her sacrifice, intensifies empathy: her happiness is other-directed, confirming the selflessness the structure builds.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer structures empathy by foregrounding hardship through the repeated, short opening "One dollar and eighty-seven cents" and "Three times Della counted it", then shifting perspective to "take a look at the home" so the bleak setting deepens our understanding before refocusing on Della. It would also note how time pressure and tonal shifts ("Tomorrow would be Christmas Day", "sobs, sniffles, and smiles") lead into a quicker sequence ("Suddenly", "Give it to me quick") that escalates to her sacrifice, helping readers feel her urgency and love for "Her Jim".

One way the writer structures the opening to create empathy is through repetition and temporal pressure. The story begins with the repeated short line “One dollar and eighty-seven cents,” foregrounding scarcity, then adds “the next day would be Christmas,” a temporal reference that tightens urgency. The intrusive narrator’s aside about “sobs, sniffles, and smiles” frames Della’s tears as ordinary and human, inviting sympathy.

In addition, a shift in focus from character to setting and back deepens empathy. The direct address “take a look at the home” zooms out, piling details like a “letter-box into which no letter would go,” explaining her despair. The contrast between “Dillingham” and the contracted “D.” signals fallen fortunes, before the sustained viewpoint returns to Della at the window with the tripled “gray... gray... gray.”

A further structural feature is a decisive turning point that quickens the pace. “Suddenly” and dynamic verbs (“whirled,” “pulled”) move from reflection to action, and a zoom-in on the couple’s “two possessions” raises the stakes. Brisk, transactional dialogue—“Twenty dollars”—is juxtaposed with the lyrical “brown cascade,” intensifying empathy for her sacrifice despite the upbeat close: “two hours tripped by on rosy wings.”

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 answer would say the writer begins with the repeated short line One dollar and eighty-seven cents to focus on Della’s lack of money, then widens to the poor setting (shabby little couch, $8 per week) to make us feel sorry for her. It would also notice a change in mood with sobs, sniffles, and smiles and a turning point marked by Suddenly and Will you buy my hair?, showing her sacrifice to increase empathy.

One way the writer creates empathy is by beginning with repetition and small money details. The repeated "One dollar and eighty-seven cents" and short sentences slow the pace and show Della’s struggle. Counting the coins three times makes us feel her worry and embarrassment.

In addition, the focus then shifts to the home ("take a look at the home"). This zoom-out and the narrator’s aside contrast with Della’s tears: the shabby flat, the "gray" view and the useless letter-box highlight poverty, so our sympathy for her grows.

A further structural feature is a clear turning point. "Suddenly" signals a change of pace as the focus moves to her hair and the decision to sell it. The "tear ... splashed" and the rush to "Mme. Sofronie" show sacrifice, so empathy deepens towards the end.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer repeats "One dollar and eighty-seven cents" and shows the "shabby little couch" with "sobs, sniffles" to show Della’s poverty and upset, making us feel sorry for her. Later, when she says "Only $1.87" and then "Will you buy my hair?", the move to her decision shows her sacrifice and increases empathy.

One way the writer creates empathy is the opening, with repetition and a short sentence: "One dollar and eighty‑seven cents." Focusing on the tiny amount and "Christmas" makes us feel her worry.

In addition, the focus shifts to the flat. The narrator pauses to show the useless letter‑box and button. This wider view shows poverty, so our empathy grows.

A further feature is a change in mood and pace. The perspective returns to Della as she whirls out to sell her hair. The "Tomorrow" time reference adds pressure and empathy.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Stark, repeated sum front-loads scarcity, aligning us with her anxiety (One dollar and eighty-seven cents)
• Imminent festive deadline increases stakes of her love, heightening reader concern (the next day would be Christmas)
• Immediate breakdown and narratorial aside chart an emotional dip, inviting us to share her vulnerability (sobs, sniffles, and smiles)
• Perspective shift to a tour of the flat supplies material hardship context, deepening sympathy (A furnished flat at $8)
• Inserted backstory of diminished status contrasts prosperity and present want, intensifying pathos (modest and unassuming D)
• Focus narrows to her devotion through intimate phrasing, centring the human stakes (Her Jim)
• Monochrome external view sustains a bleak tone as she plans, keeping empathy engaged (gray cat walking a gray fence)
• Withholding her idea until a sudden decisive gesture builds tension around sacrifice (Suddenly she whirled)
• Strategic placement of the couple’s prized items raises the cost of her choice, increasing compassion (two possessions)
• Accelerated pacing through a brisk sale and time compression ends the section in hopeful purpose after loss (tripped by on rosy wings)

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, Della's decision to sell her hair is a sudden and dramatic moment. The writer suggests that making a great sacrifice is the truest way to show love.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Della's decision to sell her hair
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey the importance of her sacrifice
• 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 perceptively argue that the writer largely endorses sacrifice as the truest love, elevating Della’s act through the sudden structural pivot "Suddenly she whirled", reverential address "Her Jim", and hyperbolic imagery/allusion ("cascade of brown waters", "Had the queen of Sheba"), while also weighing tonal complexity in the juxtaposition "Her eyes were shining brilliantly" with "lost its color" and the impulsive urgency "Give it to me quick", before the buoyant cadence "tripped by on rosy wings" reframes pain as purposeful.

I largely agree that Della’s decision is sudden and dramatic, and that the writer frames her sacrifice as the purest expression of love; however, that “suddenness” is prepared. The sibilant triad “sobs, sniffles, and smiles” and the intrusive aside that “sniffles” predominate set a melancholic backdrop, while the hyperbole of a bell “from which no mortal finger could coax a ring” stresses deprivation. Against this poverty, Della’s possessive “Her Jim” and her wish for “something fine and rare and sterling” foreground love as motive, priming the leap.

The decision itself is staged as a structural pivot. The adverb “Suddenly” and the dynamic “whirled” propel her from passive looking to decisive action, making the moment abrupt and theatrical. O. Henry raises the stakes by juxtaposing “two possessions”—Jim’s watch and “Della’s hair”—then inflating their worth through biblical allusion: the Queen of Sheba would be “depreciate[d],” and “King Solomon” would “pluck at his beard from envy.” Such hyperbole makes her hair near-mythic, so when she offers it up, the sacrifice reads as profound, not trivial.

Language choices also dramatise both resolve and cost. Her “eyes... shining brilliantly” yet a face that “lost its color” within “twenty seconds” captures conflicting exhilaration and fear. The simile “like a cascade of brown waters” and hair that “made itself almost a garment” render it tangible, intensifying loss. Brief hesitation—“she faltered... a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet”—creates pathos. Yet anaphora speeds momentum—“On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat”—towards the act.

At Madame Sofronie’s, pace and contrast sustain the drama. The shopkeeper is “large, too white, chilly,” an unromantic foil to Della’s “whirl of skirts” and “fluttered” urgency. Their staccato exchange—“Will you buy my hair?”/“I buy hair”—and the terse “Twenty dollars” compress the transaction into a few beats, underscoring decisiveness. Post-sale, time “tripped by on rosy wings” before the narrator undercuts himself—“Forget the hashed metaphor”—a playful intrusion that affirms the joy born of sacrifice as Della “ransack[s] the stores” for Jim.

Overall, the moment is undeniably sudden and dramatic, engineered through pace, dynamic verbs, and heightened imagery. Though the narrator’s irony checks sentimentality, the cumulative effect—biblical allusion, pathos, and those “rosy wings”—suggests that self-denial is the truest token of love in this world of “sobs” and “sniffles.” I agree to a large extent.

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 mostly agree, explaining that the writer presents Della’s sacrifice as an act of love through urgent pace and celebratory imagery—"Suddenly she whirled", "her eyes were shining brilliantly", "Give it to me quick", "the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings"—which make her choice feel purposeful and affectionate. It would also note methods that heighten both value and cost, such as hyperbole comparing her treasures to "the queen of Sheba" and "King Solomon", contrasted with "lost its color" and "a tear or two", showing awareness of devotion alongside pain.

I agree to a large extent that Della's decision is sudden and dramatic, and that the writer presents self-sacrifice as the purest sign of love. The narrator first stresses hardship, using the tricolon “sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating” and the detail of an “$8 per week” flat. This poverty makes her motive clearer. The minor sentence “Her Jim.” and the repetition of “Only$1.87” foreground devotion and frustration, so we anticipate an extreme solution.

The decision itself feels sudden and dramatic because of pace and contrast. “Suddenly she whirled” uses an adverb and dynamic verb, while “eyes... shining” but a “face [that] had lost its color within twenty seconds” captures both excitement and fear. Adverbs like “Rapidly” and “quickly” quicken the rhythm. At the same time, the hair is idealised through the simile “like a cascade of brown waters,” and the hyperbole that it reaches “below her knee” and is “almost a garment.” Allusions to the “queen of Sheba” and “King Solomon” elevate it to treasure, heightening the stakes.

The emotional cost of love is admitted when “once she faltered” and “a tear or two splashed,” but she chooses decisively: “whirl of skirts” and she “fluttered out.” In the shop, staccato dialogue makes the moment dramatic and final: “Will you buy my hair?” “I buy hair.” “Twenty dollars.” “Give it to me quick.” Afterward, the personified metaphor “two hours tripped by on rosy wings” and the narrator’s playful aside, “Forget the hashed metaphor,” show joy in finding “something fine and rare and sterling... worthy of... Jim,” suggesting that sacrifice is what gives her love its value.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: through pace, rich imagery and sharp contrast, the writer frames Della’s sudden choice as dramatic and presents sacrifice as the sincerest proof of love.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response will mostly agree that sacrifice proves love, identifying Della’s sudden choice to sell her "hair"—noting "Suddenly she whirled", the poverty of "only $1.87", and her urgency in "Give it to me quick". It will make simple method comments, e.g., that the vivid description "a cascade of brown waters" and the concrete price "Twenty dollars" emphasise the value of what she gives up for Jim.

I mostly agree that Della’s decision is sudden and dramatic, and that the writer presents her sacrifice as a true sign of love.

The moment itself feels abrupt and intense. The adverb “Suddenly she whirled from the window” and the verb choice “Rapidly she pulled down her hair” create speed and urgency. There is also contrast in her appearance: “her eyes were shining… but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds,” which suggests shock and high emotion. The quick, breathless movement continues in the structure: “with a whirl of skirts… she fluttered out the door,” and her urgent dialogue, “Give it to me quick,” adds to the drama.

The writer also shows how great the sacrifice is. Della’s hair is described with a simile as “rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters,” making it precious. The hyperbole with the “queen of Sheba” and “King Solomon” suggests it is priceless. Even though “she faltered… and a tear or two splashed,” she still sells it to buy something “worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim,” showing love motivates her choice. The tone lifts after the sale: the metaphor “two hours tripped by on rosy wings” contrasts with the earlier “gray cat… gray fence… gray backyard,” implying love turns hardship into joy.

However, the scene is not simple; Madame is “large, too white, chilly,” which hints that sacrifice can feel harsh and costly.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer uses adverbs, contrast, and vivid imagery to make the decision dramatic and to suggest that a great sacrifice is the truest way Della can show her love.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 1 answer would simply agree, saying Della proves her love by selling her hair — "Suddenly" she asks "Will you buy my hair?", says "Give it to me quick," and it is to buy "for Jim’s present."

I mostly agree with the statement. Della’s choice feels sudden and dramatic. The writer shows money worries like “only $1.87,” so the sacrifice feels important. The adverb “Suddenly” and the time phrase “within twenty seconds” make her decision happen fast, and action verbs like “whirled” and “fluttered out the door” create drama. The short, urgent speech “Give it to me quick” and “panting” also add to the speed.

I think the writer suggests sacrifice equals love by showing how precious her hair is. The simile “rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters” makes it sound beautiful, and the reference to the “queen of Sheba” and “King Solomon” shows it is worth a lot. Because of this, selling it for Jim proves her love. We also see her motive: she wants “something fine and rare and sterling” for him. She “faltered” and “a tear or two splashed,” which shows it hurts, but then “two hours tripped by on rosy wings,” so she is happy to do it.

Overall, I agree to a large extent that this is a sudden, dramatic moment, and the writer links true love with a great sacrifice.

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:

• Sudden, dramatic decision: dynamic movement conveys impulsive resolve driven by love (Suddenly she whirled)
• Exalted hair imagery: elevates what is lost, so the sacrifice feels momentous (cascade of brown waters)
• Momentary hesitation and tears: reveals the emotional cost, deepening the sense of loving self-denial (Once she faltered)
• Poverty context heightens stakes: a sale price equal to a week’s income makes the choice weighty (Twenty dollars)
• Personal motive foregrounded: the gift is for a cherished person, not vanity or status (Her Jim)
• Regal allusions magnify value: giving up something fit to rival royalty frames sacrifice as love’s highest proof (queen of Sheba)
• Cold transactional world vs warm devotion: contrast sharpens admiration for her choice (too white, chilly)
• Breathless pacing propels the scene: urgency adds drama to the act of giving (fluttered out the door)
• Aftermath tone is joyful: delight in giving suggests the writer idealises sacrificial love (rosy wings)
• Decisive dialogue seals commitment: unwavering urgency underscores sincerity of her sacrifice (Give it to me quick)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At the city careers fair, organisers are inviting creative writing entries about moments in working life.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a busy newsroom from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about admitting a mistake at work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Model Answers

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

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

Option A:

The newsroom hums, a bright, rectangular heart that refuses to sleep. Monitors blink in constellations of cold cobalt and milk-white; their glow varnishes faces with a faint aquarium sheen. The air carries the familiar bouquet of late hours: scorched coffee, warm plastic, paper warmed beneath clinical lamps. Somewhere a clock presides, its red second hand carving the night into measurable slices. Deadlines do not walk; they run—breathlessly, remorselessly—towards the next bulletin.

Concurrently, across the central island of desks, producers lean in, shepherding stories with the deft hands of patient wranglers. A reporter mouths a line to herself, shaping the syntax until it sits perfectly on her tongue; another pares adjectives with the severity of a surgeon. Sub-editors (hawk-eyed, implacable) skim and strike: apostrophes are corralled; dates tidied; rumours tethered to facts. The click-clack of keys stitches the floor together, rapid, relentless, resolute.

The sounds arrive in layers, a careful cacophony. A printer coughs up pages; the sliding studio door shooshes open; the autocue spools with imperial calm. From the control room, a lacquered voice counts down, smooth as pebbles in a stream: Ten. Nine. Eight—then silence as thin as tissue, while the presenter breathes and the light on camera one pricks red. The city beyond the glass is a black mirror flecked with sodium; in here, the light invents its own miniature dawn.

On the far wall, a map blooms with heat and motion. Tickers flit through currencies and storm systems; an alert banner pulses once, then again. The room inhales. Chairs skitter; screens rearrange themselves like chessboards mid-game. Fingers become choreography: drag this, confirm that, call legal, ring the witness, check the spelling of a difficult name. A producer lifts a palm, and the noise obeys her as if it were trained. The editor’s tone is clipped—not unkind—flint striking tinder: Be precise; be certain; be first without being wrong. For a beat, the newsroom is not a room at all but a nerve, fired by a voltage of urgency that tastes metallic.

The small things insist on being seen. A mug with a chipped lip declares World’s Best Dad; the O has worn thin where a thumb rests. Post-it notes drift like confetti across a monitor’s bezel, neon leaves in an artificial autumn. Beneath a desk, a tangle of cables loops like a patient sea-creature; cold air from the vents frets ankles and gathers in corners. Someone’s tie has come adrift. Someone else laughs—too loudly—and immediately sips it back down.

When the story lands, applause does not erupt; it exhales. The presenter’s voice softens by a semitone; the headline settles, legible and sober. Then the tide withdraws; voices return to ordinary volume; the hum resumes its steady, industrious drone. Outside, rain stitches the streets to morning. Inside, the screens keep breathing. The newsroom, tireless, keeps time so that the world can borrow it.

Option B:

Morning at the office didn’t so much arrive as click on: strip-lights, air-con, the perpetual server-hum; a thin smell of disinfectant and ambition. Keyboards began their soft rainfall; screens bloomed awake in a synchronised halo. I set my water bottle on the desk and listened to that small, private echo inside my ribs. It was the sound of a sentence I could not yet say. Everything here was polished, procedural, precise; everything but me. My courage felt like a moth in a jar—flitting, frantic, incandescent, and useless.

Last night, late; last night, careless. Under the blue, unblinking stare of the screen, I hovered, clicked, attached—so ordinary, so irrevocable. I sent the wrong document: the spreadsheet with our unredacted costs, our quiet margins carried into the open. I watched the progress bar creep like a fuse and then it was gone. Would she already know? Would the file be forwarded, dissected, held up like a specimen? Now, in my Sent folder, it glowed like a bruise I kept pressing, as if pressure could undo what my finger had done.

I built excuses the way some people build card houses: delicately, defensively, praying for no breeze. Blame the system; call it a glitch; say I was tired. The truth does not bargain; it waits, accruing interest. I drafted an apology, deleted it, drafted another. Meanwhile, Ms Patel moved in her glass office like a neat current, aligning papers, fielding calls. By the time the second hand shrugged past nine, resolution—thin but present—reached my feet. I stood, smoothed a crease that refused, and walked.

Past Amina’s desk (a laugh cupped in her palm), past the ficus listing towards the window as if it wanted out, past the printer coughing up minutes. The floor was a low, respectful murmur; my heartbeat, not. At the glass I caught myself: crooked tie, pinched mouth, that peculiar penumbra of sleeplessness. I thought of turning back. I thought of the temporary mercy of silence. And yet the handle was under my hand—cool, decisive—and my knuckles knocked before I could change my mind.

"Come in," she said.

Her office smelled faintly of citrus and laser toner; precise, almost consoling. "How can I help?"

My mouth rehearsed the easy lie. Instead, I put the sentence down between us: "I’ve made a mistake," I said. "Yesterday evening I sent the tender with the unredacted figures to the client."

The words did not shatter; they landed—small, undeniable—like a key on a table. She inhaled, aligned a corner of paper with her thumb. "Thank you for telling me," she said. "Let’s see what we can do."

Relief isn’t rescue; it is a door cracked open. Nevertheless, air moved through it.

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

Option A:

The blue-white glow of monitors pools across desks, printing oblong lakes of light onto coffee-stained notes. The hum of the air-conditioning is like a dull violin; fluorescent bars buzz; the glass wall throws back tired faces. The smell: scorched dust from a tired printer, bitter coffee, a hint of rain from damp coats. Papers ripple when someone strides past. The room is a grid - cables knotted like dark vines; screens stacked in tiers - a shoal of electric fish. The big clock, red digits stern, counts down the minutes nobody can spare.

Sound knits the room together: tap-tap-tap of keys; the soft chime of messages; a shrill phone that rings twice then surrenders. Voices overlap in low staccato—names, places, verbs—each phrase clipped to fit an invisible tempo. Someone laughs, quick and brittle; someone else sighs and rubs their eyes. The printer starts up again, a mechanical cough that becomes a relentless reel of pages. Everywhere, the news insists on being arranged, interrogated, tamed.

At the far desk, an intern leans over a notebook, handwriting small and urgent, as if letters could sprint. Beside her, a veteran subeditor pinches the bridge of his nose, then rearranges a headline with surgical care. In the corner, a producer conducts three conversations at once (phone, screen, colleague), lips moving in a precise count: thirty, twenty-five, twenty. Under the studio lights, the presenter rehearses the first line again and again, voice smooth as glass and just as brittle.

Then the red band scythes across a feed: BREAKING. The room tightens. Who has time to blink? Chairs roll; coffee cups are nudged aside; orders snap into the air. A map unfurls across one wall, blotches of colour racing toward the city; hyperlinks bloom; corrections fly. The editor's voice is low but adamant—verify, corroborate, publish. Fingers accelerate. Screens multiply like mirrors. For a moment, time seems both wild and exact, seconds stretching and leaping at once.

Outside, rain stipples the windows, making the skyline blur, but inside the rhythm holds. The clock resumes its metronomic glare; breathing steadies; someone finally takes a mouthful of cold coffee and grimaces. A dropped paper slides under a desk and is retrieved with sheepish relief. It is late—later than anyone promised their families—and yet the room refuses to empty. The story has edges; they will file them smooth. The monitors keep their steady glow, and the newsroom—tired, relentless, almost tender in its urgency—beats on.

Option B:

Monday. The office exhaled under the fluorescent glare; screens stirred; the printer cleared its throat like an anxious singer. Coffee steamed in paper cups, releasing a bitter perfume that tried—and failed—to disguise last night’s work. Keyboards began their staccato rainfall.

In that ordinary music, my mistake sat, heavy in the centre of my chest. Last night, chasing the deadline, I'd copied numbers rather than link them; I sent the pricing sheet with the wrong cells, a decimal point sidling one place to the right—neat, tiny, catastrophic. On paper the difference looked polite; in reality it was a promise the company couldn't keep. I pressed send at 23:48; I told myself I would check in the morning. I should have checked.

It is strange how quickly a small dot becomes a planet. Behind the digits: a client we’ve courted, colleagues on the slide deck, a reputation built with patient work. How do you confess something that could cost money, trust, time? Options assembled themselves with bureaucratic calm: fix it without saying; blame the system; draft a careful explanation; walk into Miriam’s glass office and say the exact truth.

I opened the sent folder (still warm, in a way), hovered over recall (as if I could spool the arrow back), watched a pop-up inform me the message had been opened. The cursor blinked a metronome of dread. My father’s voice arrived with its old scaffolding: Own it early; problems grow in the dark. I wanted to believe there was an elegant solution; there wasn't.

Jae wheeled by my desk with a tray of pastries as if Monday needed a bribe. 'Big day?' he said. I made my mouth move. 'Potentially,' I answered. I saved the file with the corrected figures, printed one copy, and stood. The corridor to Miriam's door looked longer than usual, a corridor that had learned how to stretch.

Miriam’s office was glass on three sides, aquarium-bright. She looked up as I tapped, her pen paused mid-annotation. Beyond her, the city murmured; in here, the air held. I could list my reasons; I could cushion it with context; I could ornament the truth. Instead, I heard myself—steady, unfamiliar—saying the sentence that mattered: 'I made a mistake yesterday,' I said. 'The price sheet I sent to Rylands is wrong.' She placed her pen down. 'All right,' she said. 'Show me.' My lungs began to remember how to work.

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

Option A:

The late-shift glow pools across the linoleum, a pale, electric tide that paints faces and fogs the windows. Clocks in strict rows tick towards midnight; still, no one moves slowly. Banks of monitors blink like small cities at night, their windows opening and closing. It is noisy and hushed: a breath held over a drumbeat.

Sound collects in layers—the staccato chatter of keyboards; the thin, insistent ring of phones; the low thrum of the air conditioning. A printer coughs and spits; a chair drags, scraping like a match on stone. An editor, sleeves rolled, skims a script, lancing it with a pen. Again and again, the same fierce rhythm—type, check, call, cut—repeats.

Meanwhile, at the far desk, a tired producer nurses coffee that has gone cold. Sticky notes bloom across her monitor like yellow leaves. Headlines—urgent, tentative—are scribbled and then scribbled out. A runner weaves between chairs with a sheaf; a cable snakes underfoot; someone murmurs an apology without looking up.

Beyond the main floor, the glass-walled gallery holds its own weather. Inside, a wall of screens stitches the world together: protests under streetlights, rain sliding across a windscreen, a map pulsing red. The director’s voice floats out, calm but clipped, counting down numbers. Five. Four. Three— The room breathes, and then it surges again.

The air smells faintly of burnt dust and strong coffee, with a thread of ink beneath. Reflections shiver on glasses; faces are lit from below, all cheekbone and focus. Someone phones a source and waits, pencil poised; someone checks a name letter by letter; someone rewrites a line because it sounds almost right, but not quite.

Yet there is tenderness here, a careful patience as facts are prised from rumour. A mistake could turn noise into damage. So the room holds its line—more hive than circus—order carved from haste, detail from the din.

When the clock finally slips to twelve, the glow does not dim. It lingers on keyboards; it breathes in trailing wire. Outside, the city yawns. Inside, the newsroom keeps its rhythm, relentless but not careless, because morning will demand a story—and this is where it is made.

Option B:

Monday arrived thin and bright; light slid off the filing cabinets and made a pale mirror of my screen. The office hummed in its usual way—printers clearing their throats, radiators ticking, the staccato chatter of keyboards. I had a list in a neat blue notebook, a to-do that promised order: recheck figures, email the client, confirm the shipment. It looked controllable, all boxed and underlined.

By eleven, the illusion cracked. My eyes snagged on cell H37—the exchange rate I’d typed last night. One decimal point wrong. Such a small dot; such a large consequence. The figure at the bottom had been inflated, not by a whisper but by a shout. I felt it in my stomach first, a sinking, as if the floor had quietly dropped an inch without telling me. I clicked through the tabs, chasing the mistake around like a fly I couldn’t quite catch. The email had gone at 9:02. “Sent.” Final. Delivered.

For a second (longer than it should have been), I considered the easy option. Perhaps I could send a “corrected version” and pretend the last one was a draft. Perhaps no one had opened it yet. No one would have to know. But the words “Integrity Policy” pinned themselves to the inside of my head; the framed poster by the kitchenette suddenly felt louder than the kettle. Meanwhile, the office carried on—someone laughed near the photocopier, the phones rose and fell like sirens under water.

I stood. The walk to my manager’s glass door was not epic, but it felt like crossing a threshold. The corridor smelt of coffee and carpet cleaner; the air-conditioning made a quiet, persuasive hiss. “Have you got two minutes?” I asked, voice thin with nerves I tried to iron out.

He looked up from his screen, pushed his chair back a fraction. “Of course.”

“I’ve made a mistake,” I said. The admission came out oddly plain, without excuse, which is not to say I didn’t have plenty of them queued in my mouth. “In the quotation to DaoTech. I typed the wrong rate. It changes the total by eight percent.”

He didn’t explode. He didn’t even sigh. He folded his hands together, carefully, as if putting something delicate down. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “Sit down. Let’s work out the fix.”

Relief didn’t arrive; not yet. Consequences still waited, polite but heavy. Even so, the room felt a fraction clearer—as if by opening the door, I’d let some stale air out. Outside, the printer coughed again, and the day moved forward.

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

Option A:

The newsroom does not sleep. Even at this late hour, a cool blue light shines from a wall of screens, washing the desks with a pale glow. The air hums like a fridge. Monitors flicker, their edges smudged with fingerprints; chairs creak; somewhere a printer coughs and then stutters into silence. A red digital clock clicks forward, stern and relentless.

Reporters lean over keyboards, shoulders hunched, typing in bursts. Their hands move in small storms over letters. Mugs stand in uneven ranks—lipstick, rings of old coffee, chipped handles—crowded between stacks of notes. On one desk a photograph, a child’s grin, is pinned under a paperclip, as if it might blow away in the air-conditioning.

In the glass box at the far side, the producer points with a pen. She speaks quietly at first, then quicker, brisk and clipped. The presenter’s script slides from the printer like a thin coat; an editor grabs it and marks it with a thick black pen. Cut this, add that. A new alert slides across the screen; the room tightens, and voices rise. News breaks. A camera blinks its tally light—ready, not ready, ready—and the floor manager’s hand hovers.

Sound layers over sound: the flat clack of keys, the soft hiss of headsets, the breathy sigh when a story falls apart. There is the smell of warm plastic and takeaway chips, salt and vinegar mixing with the sharp scent of ink. Someone laughs too loudly. For a moment the whole place holds its breath.

A fresh page opens, glowing like a small window. Outside the windows the city is dark, but here, this box of noise and light pulls the world inside. It is busy, not beautiful exactly, but it matters; everyone knows the deadline cannot wait.

Option B:

The lift doors sighed open and the office lights blinked themselves awake. Telephones still slept, but the printers breathed faintly. Monday had a grey face. The carpet smelled of lemon cleaner and last night’s coffee. I slid my badge across the sensor, settled at my desk, and woke the computer. In the quiet, my heartbeat felt loud. I told myself it would be an ordinary day: emails, calls, a meeting at eleven. Somewhere in that calm, a single choice waited for me like a loose thread.

The first ping came sharp as a pin. Subject lines stacked in neat panic: Re: Final Proposal; URGENT: figures? The frozen feeling started in my hands. I clicked; the attachments I had sent at 10:43 p.m. were wrong—the draft spreadsheet, not the final one. The discount column was still hidden; the totals were inflated. Jensen & Co. had asked for a clean, accurate quote for their board this morning, and I had given them a mess with our logo on top.

I stared at the sent email as if looking could reverse it. I could try to slip a corrected version into their inbox and pretend nothing had happened, which was cowardly and probably useless. There was only one honest path: tell Mr Carter now, face it, fix it. My shoes hissed across the carpet; his door, all glass, reflected a pale version of me. My stomach pulled tight, my mouth dry, the apology rehearsed and simple: I made a mistake.

I knocked. He looked up, eyebrows a question. I stepped in and let the words out before I could trap them again. "I sent the wrong proposal to Jensen last night," I said. "The figures aren’t final. I’m sorry. I need to fix it now." He gestured to the chair. "Sit," he said. "Tell me everything."

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

Option A:

The newsroom hums like a machine that won't switch off. Glow of monitors paint faces a cold blue; the red clock glares 22:47, daring anyone to pause. Chairs scrape, phones trill, keyboards chatter: tap-tap-tap, a rain of plastic. The air tastes of old coffee and warm dust, a tired smell. Above, strip lights flicker and blink, as if they are following the headlines crawling along the bottom of a screen.

Across the central desk, wires curl, microphones sleep, and notepads are stacked in messy towers. A printer coughs out another page; thin paper slaps the tray. A reporter hunches over, sleeves rolled, eyes narrowed, lips moving while he writes. There is a coffee ring around his elbow and an army of sticky notes marching across the monitor. He bites a pen, thinks, deletes, then types faster, as if the words might run away.

Meanwhile, the editor stands near the whiteboard like a conductor. "Hold page two," she says, and a cluster of heads turn. Her hand cuts the air—sharp, precise—pointing to deadlines scrawled in red. On the television, a live feed stutters, a presenter smiles too brightly; someone adjusts the volume and the room leans in. The phones chorus again, overlapping voices building a restless song.

In the corner, a young runner hovers with a stack of proofs, waiting for a gap that never comes. He slips one onto a desk. Then another. Outside, night presses against the windows, but inside the pulse keeps going. The story gathers, breaks, gathers; the newsroom breathes, and carries on.

Option B:

The strip lights hummed; the office smelt of burnt coffee and lemon cleaner. My screen glowed a too-bright white, the cursor blinking like a small heartbeat. Everybody else joked by the printer, their voices light, but my stomach felt heavy. The truth was there, lodged like a stone I had swallowed wrong.

Last night I stayed late, stubborn and tired. Numbers blurred, lines crossed, and a zero slipped where it shouldn’t. One zero. Small, round, quiet. It turned a manageable order into a problem with teeth. I clicked send because my eyes were sandy, because the clock said 8:47 and the bus only comes twice an hour, I clicked send, I went home.

I should have checked. I should have checked again.

Now it was morning, and the email had replies. The client wanted to confirm the "new price" with excitement, my manager wanted to see me. The printer coughed; the radiator rattled; the clock nudged each second forward as if the room itself was impatient. I practised the words in my head: I made a mistake. Simple sentence, heavy package.

His office door was glass, and my reflection looked pale and damp. What if he shouts? What if he says I’m finished? My shoes felt loud on the carpet, like coins being dropped one by one. I knocked - three times: polite, guilty.

"Come in," he said without looking up.

I stepped inside. "I added an extra zero on the invoice," I said, my voice too small. "It’s my fault, but I know how to fix it - if you’ll let me."

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

Option A:

The newsroom hums, a thin electric noise in the air. Monitors glow in rows, pale squares lighting tired faces. Keys rattle; the sound is quick and sharp, like rain on metal. Phones trill, then stop, then start again. A red ticker crawls across a wall screen, headline after headline. Coffee smells bitter and sweet, mixing with warm dust and printer ink.

At the centre, the editor stands with sleeves pushed up, voice clipped. Copy in five, he says, eyes moving faster than the clock. An intern shuffles past with cups that tremble, almost spilling. Meanwhile, a reporter argues with a source; words drop low, then climb. Light from the flourescent strips is hard, casting shadows on whiteboards where deadlines are marked in red.

On one desk a photo of a storm sits under a paperweight, like a tiny sea. Another desk is a small mess - post-its, chargers, a sandwich half-wrapped. For a second everything pauses as the camera's red eye blinks: live. Then movement breaks out again, tap tap tap, phones ring, chairs scrape. It is messy and loud and somehow clear; the story pulls them all forward. Isn't this chaos kind of orderly.

Option B:

Monday morning. The office smelled of burnt toast and coffee; the strip lights hummed. In my inbox, unread replies flashed like warnings. I had sent the wrong spreadsheet to a client last night, the draft with guesses, not the final. I could hear my heart in my ears. I should have checked. I should have waited.

At my desk I rehearsed an apology, whispering it into my mug. Tell the truth. Own it. Easy words. But walking to Mr Patel’s glass door felt like walking through glue. The printer chattered; chairs squeaked. I thought about deleting the email or blaming the system – it froze – but the thought sat heavy, like a stapler. It was my fault: my mistake.

Knuckles on glass. Mr Patel looked up; his eyebrows lifted. 'Morning,' he said. My voice wobbled. 'I need to admit something,' I began. The words tasted metallic. I took a breath, then another, and I said it. 'I sent the wrong file yesterday. It was me.' Silence stretched for a second too long. The lights hummed, my face burned, and, oddly, I felt lighter, like a drawer finally shut.

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

Option A:

The room is full of light from the screens. They glow blue and white and a bit blury. People sit at desks, they are typing, they are tapping, the keyboards buzz like bees. Phones ring and blink. A big red clock hangs on the wall, it ticks loud, tick tick tick. Papers are everywhere, some on the floor, some in a messy pile. It smells like coffee and dust. It is definately busy.

A man shouts across the room, his voice jumps then falls, we need it now, now, now! Another person whispers, they look tired. The editor waves a hand like a flag and the room stirs. I hear chair wheels squeek. A printer coughs and spits a page.

I walk between the desks. My screen shows a headline. It feels important but far away. i try to write, the words come slow then stop... The room keeps moving.

Option B:

Morning at work is loud and bright. The lights buzz like bees and the printer coughs out paper. Coffee smells mix with dust. I stare at my screen and it stares back at me.

I made a mistake yesterday. I sent the wrong report to a client and it had the wrong numbers, it had my name on it as well. I should of checked it, I should of asked Sam to look, I didn’t though.

I have to tell. I have to say it out loud or it will grow bigger in my head. My mouth is dry. My hands were shaking and I wipe them on my trousers.

The boss office is at the end. The door is closed. What if he shouts? What if he laughs? What if he tells me to go? I walk down the carpet and each step sounds like a drum.

It was me.

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

Option A:

The newsroom is busy and loud. There is many screens and they shine blue on faces. Tap tap tap on the keys, ring ring from phones, someone says hurry. The editor shouts, his tie is loose, papers mess on the desk and a coffee cup is cold. I see lights and wires, the air feels warm, it smells like dust and coffee. We was tired but it dont stop, more words come, more news, they is typing. A TV shows rain, another shows a fire. Chairs scrapes, feet move, the clock tick tick. It feels like a storm inside the room.

Option B:

Morning. The office is loud and busy. Phones ring, keys click, coffee smell in the air. I press send and I breathe out. Then my stomach drop. It is the wrong file, the numbers are old and the date wrong and my name on it. I should of checked but I didnt. The plant on my desk is dry, I forgot to water it to. I stand up and walk to my boss office. My hands shake. Im not ready. I say, it was me, I sent it, I made a mistake. The printer keeps going like nothing cares.