AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 Which hour is described as lonely?: The after-dinner hour – 1 mark
• 1.2 What number of books is explicitly stated by the narrator/speaker?: Seven thousand – 1 mark
• 1.3 What smell is associated with the small dark room?: Dust and decayed paper – 1 mark
• 1.4 Where are the quarto volumes of extinct encyclopedias located?: On the top shelves near the ceiling – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 in piles like the tiered coffins in common graves. Gordon pushed aside the blue, dust-sodden curtains that served as a doorway to the next room. This, better lighted than the other, contained the lending library. It was one of those 'twopenny no-deposit' libraries beloved of book-pinchers. No books in it except novels, of course. And WHAT novels! But that too was a matter of

11 course. Eight hundred strong, the novels lined the room on three sides ceiling-high, row upon row of gaudy oblong backs, as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks laid upright. They were arranged alphabetically. Arlen,

How does the writer use language to depict the lending library and Gordon’s feelings towards it? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses precise, evaluative diction and crafted sentence effects to convey a tawdry, commercialized space and Gordon’s scorn: the tactile decay of blue, dust-sodden curtains, the pejorative 'twopenny no-deposit' and sneering label beloved of book-pinchers, and the exclamative, typographically emphatic And WHAT novels! all signal derision. Visual comparison commodifies the shelves—gaudy oblong backs stacked as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks laid upright—while the neatness of arranged alphabetically suggests superficial order that masks poor quality.

The writer uses tactile detail and evaluative comparison to present a shabby, makeshift space from the outset. The “blue, dust-sodden curtains that served as a doorway” employ a compound adjective and the functional verb “served” to suggest neglect and improvised poverty. Even “This, better lighted than the other,” is a grudging comparative, implying only a marginal improvement and signalling Gordon’s habitual gloom.

Moreover, pejorative lexis and colloquial labels expose his contempt for the lending library. The phrase “‘twopenny no-deposit’” in scare quotes mocks a bargain-basement institution, while “beloved of book-pinchers” uses plosive alliteration and a sneering compound noun to cast its clientele as petty thieves. Inside, the novels are reduced to mere objects: “gaudy oblong backs”. The adjective “gaudy” connotes garish vulgarity, and the choice of “backs” over the more literary “spines” is deliberately deflationary.

Furthermore, quantification and metaphor build claustrophobia. “Eight hundred strong” feels boastful yet oppressive, and the room is “lined… ceiling-high, row upon row… as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks.” Here the novels become bricks in a cheap, many-hued wall, suggesting mass production and imprisoning uniformity; Gordon feels hemmed in by tawdry abundance.

Additionally, sentence forms and graphology dramatise his scorn. The clipped sequence “No books… except novels, of course. And WHAT novels!” uses parataxis, the exclamative and emphatic capitalisation to perform disgust. Even “They were arranged alphabetically. Arlen,” with its abrupt, list-like ending, implies mechanical order and an endless, weary catalogue—capturing Gordon’s cynical, joyless response to the library.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: At Level 3, a response would identify pejorative diction and vivid imagery presenting the lending library as cheap and oppressive, citing 'twopenny no-deposit' and 'beloved of book-pinchers', the shabby 'blue, dust-sodden curtains', and the simile 'as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks laid upright' with 'gaudy oblong backs' 'row upon row' 'ceiling-high' to suggest garish uniformity. It would also comment on sentence form and tone, noting the exclamatory 'And WHAT novels!' as evidence of Gordon’s scorn.

The writer uses bleak description to present the library as shabby and unimpressive. The adjectives "blue, dust-sodden curtains" and the phrase "served as a doorway" suggest a makeshift entrance, hinting at neglect and low quality, which shapes Gordon’s disdain as he enters.

Furthermore, the tone is clearly scornful. The pejorative noun phrase "twopenny no-deposit" and the colloquial "beloved of book-pinchers" imply cheapness and even theft, so the library seems seedy. The exclamative "And WHAT novels!" with capitalisation, plus the repeated aside "of course", creates sarcasm, revealing Gordon’s contempt for the stock.

Moreover, scale and colour overwhelm rather than impress. "Eight hundred strong" and "ceiling-high" stress sheer quantity, while "row upon row of gaudy oblong backs" uses the adjective "gaudy" to suggest garish ugliness. The simile "as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks" makes the room feel brash and blocky, almost claustrophobic.

Finally, blunt sentence forms—"No books in it except novels, of course. They were arranged alphabetically. Arlen,"—sound mechanical and bored, showing that, although orderly, the library is uninspiring to Gordon. Altogether, the language depicts a cheap, overstocked space and conveys his dismissive attitude.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses negative adjectives like blue, dust-sodden and gaudy, and cheap-sounding phrases like 'twopenny no-deposit' and 'beloved of book-pinchers' to make the library seem shabby and low-quality, showing Gordon looks down on it. The exclamation WHAT novels!, the simile as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks, and the piling up of numbers and repetition (Eight hundred strong, row upon row) make the books feel overwhelming and lifeless, suggesting his scorn.

The writer uses adjectives to create a negative image as Gordon enters. The “blue, dust-sodden curtains” suggest neglect and dirt, making the place feel shabby and showing Gordon is not impressed.

Furthermore, the phrase “‘twopenny no-deposit’ libraries beloved of book-pinchers” uses loaded language and sarcasm to suggest the library is cheap and low-quality. The blunt line “No books in it except novels, of course.” and the exclamative “And WHAT novels!” emphasise his scorn.

Additionally, quantity and a simile present the stock as overwhelming and garish: “Eight hundred strong… row upon row of gaudy oblong backs,” and “as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks.” The repetition of “row upon row” suggests monotony. Overall, the language shows the library as tacky and Gordon as dismissive.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might point out negative words and a simple simile like "dust-sodden" and "as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks" to show the library seems shabby, and notice the exclamation "WHAT novels!" plus phrases like "twopenny no-deposit" and "beloved of book-pinchers" to suggest Gordon thinks the books are cheap.

The writer uses a simile to describe the library. The phrase "like the tiered coffins" makes it seem gloomy. Moreover, the comparison "as though the walls had been built of many-coloured bricks" shows rows of books like a wall. The adjectives "dust-sodden" and "gaudy" make it seem dirty and cheap, so Gordon disapproves. Furthermore, the exclamation "WHAT novels!" with capitals shows his shock and annoyance. Additionally, "book-pinchers" sounds mocking, hinting he thinks the place attracts thieves. Also, "row upon row" shows there are lots of books.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Sensory and action detail: the verb choice and gritty texture make the entrance feel squalid and makeshift, hinting at Gordon’s weary distaste (blue, dust-sodden curtains)
• Parenthetic comparative aside: the qualifying clause sounds grudging, as if even the “better” light merely exposes shabbiness (better lighted than the other)
• Derogatory labeling and irony: the colloquial tag suggests cheapness and attracts thieves, revealing contempt for the place and its clientele (beloved of book-pinchers)
• Blunt declarative narrowness: a simple, definitive sentence reduces the stock to one genre, with a cynical shrug of inevitability (No books in it except novels)
• Exclamative emphasis and capitals: the outburst conveys scornful disbelief at their quality, projecting Gordon’s disgust (And WHAT novels!)
• Reiterated inevitability: the phrase signals resignation, reinforcing a jaded expectation that such tawdriness is normal (matter of course)
• Quantification for scale: the precise count makes the mass feel overwhelming and impersonal, draining individuality from the books (Eight hundred strong)
• Pejorative description: tacky, objectifying nouns/adjectives reduce literature to ugly surfaces and monotonous ranks (gaudy oblong backs)
• Extended metaphor: turning books into building materials makes the room feel garishly constructed and lifeless (many-coloured bricks)
• Ordered categorisation: bureaucratic neatness creates a mechanical, joyless sense of sameness rather than curiosity (arranged alphabetically)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace the structural progression from the isolating "lonely after-dinner hour" and "small dark room" to the claustrophobic accumulation of "row upon row" of novels, "arranged alphabetically" into a "vault of puddingstone", then pivoting at "However" into the "front room" and finally the hostile street, where catalogues of brands ("Q.T. Sauce", "Bovex") and the "leaden" weather intensify unease. It would analyse how listing and repetition, exclamatory emphasis ("And WHAT novels!"), and shifts of focalisation ("Gordon shortened the focus of his eyes"; "He lengthened the focus of his eyes again") escalate claustrophobia into self-disgust ("Not a good face") and then to external threat, culminating in the ominous "threatening note" of the "first growl of winter's anger".

One way in which the writer structures the opening to create discomfort is through a spatial progression that perversely deepens confinement. We move from the “lonely after-dinner hour,” “alone with seven thousand books” in a “small dark room,” through the lending library to the “front part of the shop,” yet each shift intensifies claustrophobia: “tiered coffins,” then a “vault of puddingstone” walls him in. These stage-like transitions deny release.

In addition, cumulative listing is used to oppress. The alphabetical catalogue—“Arlen… Walpole”—and the “row upon row” of “gaudy” spines create mechanical monotony, as though the very walls are built from books. It recurs outside: ads pile up—“Q.T. Sauce… Bovex”—and escalate to a grotesque close-up, the “rat-faced clerk” of Bovex, which “oppressed Gordon the most.” The enumeration makes the reader feel hemmed in.

A further structural choice is the manipulation of focus and perspective via internal focalisation. After surveying the street, the narrative pivots on the glass: “From the dust-dulled pane the reflection of his own face looked back.” The zoom-in to “moth-eaten” features, then the re-zoom outward as he “lengthened the focus,” creates a disorientating oscillation. Patterning of “oppressive/oppressed” links setting to psyche, intensifying discomfort.

Moreover, temporal markers and tonal modulation forewarn threat. The scene is anchored (“after-dinner hour”; “St Andrew’s day”) and driven towards the “first growl of winter’s anger,” a chilling crescendo. Even fleeting hopes are structurally undercut: “However, there was nobody outside.” Finally, syntactic variation—slow periods punctured by “And WHAT novels!”—jolts the rhythm and sustains unease.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds discomfort through a shifting focus that moves from the claustrophobic back rooms—introduced by the 'lonely after-dinner hour', a 'small dark room', and images of 'tiered coffins in common graves' and a 'vault of puddingstone'—to a brief hope undercut by 'However, there was nobody outside', then out to a 'leaden' street and finally the 'nasty raw wind' and the 'first growl of winter's anger'. Cumulative patterns (alphabetised shelves, 'row upon row', 'Eight hundred strong') and a late shift to self-scrutiny—his 'moth-eaten already' face and 'hated mirrors nowadays'—intensify the feeling of entrapment and unease.

One way the writer structures the opening is through a claustrophobic spatial shift. We begin in the "lonely after-dinner hour" in a "small dark room" crammed with "seven thousand books" before the focus moves into the lending library. The accumulation of names ("Arlen... Walpole") and the mortuary metaphor "tiered coffins" build oppression. The pace slows under this cataloguing, so the reader shares Gordon's sense of being walled in by "a vault of puddingstone".

In addition, the text pivots into contrast as Gordon enters the "front" room and looks outside. Any relief ("smart and expensive-looking") is undercut by "However, there was nobody outside", deflating hope. The focus shifts to the street and hoardings; the juxtaposition of cheerful adverts with a "leaden" sky and "monstrous doll-faces" intensifies discomfort by making the world feel false and hostile.

A further device is the zoom from exterior to interior and back out. The viewpoint tightens onto his reflection ("moth-eaten already"); the declarative "He hated mirrors" turns the mood inward. Then the focus widens to the weather: short, abrupt sentences ("A nasty raw wind.") and the torn poster escalate threat, and the final line—"the first growl of winter's anger"—leaves a menacing closing note.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Discomfort builds as the text moves from the 'lonely after-dinner hour' in a 'small dark room' 'filled to the brim' with books through rooms to the 'bleak and wintry' street with a 'nasty raw wind', using lists/repetition ('row upon row', 'Q.T. Sauce', 'Bovex') and oppressive images like 'tiered coffins' to make the setting feel overwhelming. There is also a simple shift to Gordon’s negative viewpoint—'hated all books', 'Not a good face'—which adds personal unease.

One way the writer structures discomfort is by the opening focus on a cramped setting. We start in the 'lonely after-dinner hour' with 'seven thousand books' in a 'small dark room', which sets an uneasy mood. The books are 'like... coffins', so straight away the atmosphere feels oppressive.

In addition, the focus shifts from the back room to the lending library and then the front shop, which builds pressure. Listing and repetition, 'row upon row' and all the alphabetical names, make walls around Gordon, so the reader feels trapped even as he 'moved on'.

A further feature is the change to the street and then a zoom-in to his reflection. The 'monstrous doll-faces' of adverts contrast with his 'not a good face', increasing unease. Finally, the ending returns to the weather, 'a nasty raw wind', leaving a threatening last note.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts with the lonely after-dinner hour in a small dark room "filled to the brim," then moves to the front part of the shop and outside to a bleak and wintry street with a nasty raw wind, so the change of places makes the discomfort grow. Simple details like Gordon’s inert hatred and that he hated mirrors show his unease.

One way the writer structures the text to create discomfort is the opening. It starts with ‘lonely’ time and a small, dark room full of books. This beginning sets a cramped, uneasy feeling.

In addition, there is a change of focus as Gordon moves through rooms and then looks outside. The long lists of novels and adverts pile up, which feels oppressive and makes the discomfort grow.

A further structural feature is how it ends with the weather and a threat. The focus shifts to the raw wind and torn poster, so the uneasy mood becomes stronger at the ending.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening isolation frames mood; starting with a quiet, empty time immediately unsettles the reader (alone with seven thousand books).
• Claustrophobic setting established before movement; morbid imagery makes the space feel airless and deathly (tiered coffins).
• Transitional movement intensifies grime; pushing through a makeshift doorway reinforces shabbiness and confinement (dust-sodden curtains).
• Accumulation and rigid ordering create monotony; the shelving becomes an oppressive wall of sameness (row upon row).
• Sudden evaluative outburst breaks description; the exclamation injects rising disgust and unease (WHAT novels!).
• Contrast then anticlimax sustain tension; a seemingly “smart” space and self-preening collapse into emptiness (there was nobody).
• Shift from interior to exterior widens the unease; bleak weather imagery extends discomfort beyond the shop (A foul day).
• Escalating visual sequence peaks in oppression; the ad montage climaxes in the most unsettling image (oppressed Gordon the most).
• Zoom-in to self via reflection personalises discomfort; self-scrutiny amplifies unease (Not a good face).
• Final weather crescendo leaves a menace; closing on a hostile season seals the disquiet (winter's anger).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 31 to the end.

In this part of the source, Gordon sees his own 'moth-eaten' reflection in the glass. The writer suggests that Gordon's unhappiness comes from his own feelings of self-hatred, not just from the bleak world around him.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Gordon's unhappiness and self-hatred
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray his feelings about his reflection
• 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 that the writer locates Gordon’s unhappiness in self-hatred, analysing how close focalisation and the mirror motif foreground his revulsion at a 'moth-eaten' face with 'bitter, ineradicable lines' in the 'dust-dulled pane'. It would also show how pathetic fallacy makes the 'foul day' and the 'first growl of winter's anger' echo rather than create his despair, while the rodent imagery linking his 'mouse- coloured' hair to the Bovex 'rat-faced' clerk signals projection onto a world he already scorns.

I largely agree that the writer locates Gordon’s unhappiness in an inward, corrosive self-disgust, even as the external world is bleak. From the outset, he refuses consolations: the front room is “smart and expensive-looking,” yet he “averted his eyes from a beastly Rackhamesque dust-jacket,” dismissing whimsy as “beastly.” That verb choice (“averted”) shows an active recoil from beauty. Although the scene outside is immediately framed by a grim semantic field—“foul day,” “leaden” sky, “slimy” cobbles—the negativity feels filtered through Gordon’s jaundiced perspective.

Structurally, the writer’s zoom from exterior to interior is crucial. Gordon “shortened the focus of his eyes,” so that, in the “dust-dulled pane,” his own face appears. The pane itself works symbolically: a grimy filter that clouds self-perception. The ensuing minor sentences—“Not a good face. Not thirty yet, but moth-eaten already.”—are terse and condemnatory, enacting his blunt self-judgment. “Moth-eaten” metaphorically suggests being nibbled away by small, persistent forces from within, not a single external blow. His lexis is relentlessly pejorative: “bitter, ineradicable lines,” “mouth unamiable,” “hair mouse-coloured and unkempt.” Even “pear-shaped,” ostensibly a neutral shape, could be heard as an echo of the idiom for failure. The aside “He hated mirrors nowadays” crystallises that self-hatred: the mirror is intolerable because it reflects the self he despises.

At the same time, the world’s falsity presses in. The “gallery of monstrous doll-faces… full of goofy optimism” and the asyndetic list of brands (“Q.T. Sauce, Truweet… Bovex”) create a barrage of synthetic cheer. Gordon is “oppressed” by the Bovex poster, with its “spectacled rat-faced clerk.” Tellingly, the rodent imagery he hurls at the clerk chimes with his own “mouse-coloured” hair, hinting at projection: he loathes in the advert what he recognises in himself. The structural flicker—he “lengthened the focus of his eyes again”—suggests he toggles between inner and outer frames, but the inner judgment sets the tone for what he then perceives.

The closing pathetic fallacy intensifies the fusion of inner and outer: a tram “like a raucous swan of steel” “glided groaning,” an oxymoronic blend of grace and pain that mirrors Gordon’s surface movement and internal grind. Personifications—the “threatening note” in the “raw wind,” the “first growl of winter’s anger”—sonically and kinetically externalise his mood.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer foregrounds self-hatred as the engine of Gordon’s misery, with “moth-eaten” and the punitive self-scrutiny doing the heaviest lifting. The bleak, commercialised city amplifies and mirrors that state, but the primary source of unhappiness is the hostile narrative Gordon turns upon himself.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree that Gordon's unhappiness stems from self-hatred, using the mirror focus and harsh self-description ("Not a good face", "moth-eaten already", "bitter, ineradicable lines", "He hated mirrors nowadays") as key evidence. It would also recognise how the bleak setting ("leaden" sky, "first growl of winter's anger") mirrors and intensifies, rather than causes, his mood.

I agree to a large extent that Gordon’s unhappiness springs from self-hatred, with the bleak world amplifying, rather than causing, his misery. From the start of this section, Gordon’s viewpoint is jaundiced even when the setting is “smart and expensive-looking,” which suggests his gloom is internal. He “averted his eyes” from the “beastly Rackhamesque” cover and sneers at the “goofy optimism” of the ads. The pejorative adjectives (“beastly,” “monstrous,” “vacuous”) show he projects contempt onto cheerful images, implying an inner hostility that distorts what he sees. Even a harmless clerk becomes “rat-faced” and the Bovex poster “oppressed” him, a verb choice that personifies the advert as a persecutor and hints at his hypersensitive, embattled mindset.

The turning point comes when he “shortened the focus of his eyes” and confronts his reflection in the “dust-dulled pane.” The metaphor “moth-eaten” is especially revealing: it suggests decay and being eaten away from within, aligning with self-corrosion rather than external hardship. His catalogue of features—“very pale,” “bitter, ineradicable lines,” “mouse-coloured and unkempt”—is a clinical, disparaging list that underscores self-disgust. The blunt judgment “Not a good face” and “He hated mirrors nowadays” directly signal self-loathing. Even the “dust-dulled” glass implies a grimy lens through which he views himself, intensifying the sense of neglect.

After he “lengthened the focus” again, the setting becomes an external echo of his mood. The writer uses pathetic fallacy and personification—“Outside, all was bleak and wintry,” the wind “the first growl of winter’s anger”—to mirror his inner state. Harsh similes and metaphors (“a tram, like a raucous swan of steel,” torn poster “fluttered… like a tiny pennant”) create a hostile, fractured world, but structurally the shift from inner to outer suggests the weather is reflecting him.

Overall, I agree that the writer locates Gordon’s unhappiness primarily in self-hatred, while the bleak environment and hollow advertising serve to echo and intensify a misery that begins within.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: I agree to some extent: the writer shows Gordon’s self-hatred in Not a good face, moth-eaten already, and He hated mirrors nowadays, suggesting he dislikes himself. However, the bleak setting with The sky was leaden, the cobbles of the street were slimy, and A nasty raw wind also makes him unhappy.

I mostly agree that the writer suggests Gordon’s unhappiness comes from his own self-hatred, although the bleak setting also adds to it. At the start of this part, the outside world is described with negative adjectives: it is a “foul day” with a “leaden” sky and “slimy” cobbles. This dreary imagery sets a miserable mood around him.

However, when Gordon looks at his reflection, the language becomes more intense and personal. He sees “the reflection of his own face” and calls it “not a good face.” The metaphor “moth-eaten” suggests decay and something worn out, showing he feels damaged before he is “thirty.” Phrases like “bitter, ineradicable lines” and a “mouth unamiable” show harsh self-judgment. The clear statement “He hated mirrors nowadays” makes his self-hatred obvious. Details such as “mouse-coloured” hair and a “pear-shaped” face build a negative self-image. There is also a structural shift when he “shortened” and then “lengthened the focus of his eyes,” moving between outside and self, which suggests his inner view is a big source of his misery.

Even so, the world outside is hostile too. The adverts are “monstrous doll-faces” with “goofy optimism,” and the Bovex poster “oppressed Gordon,” showing social pressure. The personification “the first growl of winter’s anger” and the simile “a tram, like a raucous swan of steel” make the setting threatening. This contrast between cheerful ads and his negative reactions highlights how his mood shapes what he sees.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the strongest negativity is aimed at himself, so self-hatred is the main cause, but the bleak environment makes it worse.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would say they agree to some extent, noting the writer shows Gordon hating himself with "Not a good face", "moth-eaten" and "He hated mirrors nowadays", but also pointing to the "bleak and wintry" outside as adding to his unhappiness.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer shows that Gordon’s unhappiness comes from himself, but the world around him is also bleak.

At first the setting is negative: it is a “foul day” with a “leaden” sky and “slimy” cobbles. This gloomy imagery makes everything seem cold and dirty. The adverts are a “gallery of monstrous doll-faces” and the Bovex poster “oppressed” him, which suggests the outside adds to his misery.

However, when he looks in the glass, his self-hatred is very clear. He sees a “moth-eaten” reflection and says it is “Not a good face.” The writer lists harsh details like “very pale,” “bitter… lines,” and “mouse-coloured” hair. These negative adjectives make him sound like he dislikes himself. The line “He hated mirrors nowadays” shows he cannot stand his own image. This supports the idea that his unhappiness comes from inside.

After that, the outside still feels harsh: the tram is “like a raucous swan of steel” (a simile) and winter has its “first growl” (personification), keeping the mood severe.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The world is bleak, but the writer mainly shows Gordon’s unhappiness coming from his own self-hatred.

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:

• Metaphor of self-decay foregrounds an inward cause of misery; he frames himself as damaged, so self-hatred feels primary (moth-eaten already)
• Blunt self-verdict sharpens the evaluative tone; the curt judgement implies an internalised critic driving his unhappiness (Not a good face)
• Lexis of permanence suggests entrenched self-loathing; his features feel fixed in bitterness, pointing to an inner source (bitter, ineradicable lines)
• Direct admission of aversion to his image confirms self-disgust; the mirror itself becomes intolerable to him (hated mirrors nowadays)
• Shifts in focalisation (street → self → street) show external prompts leading back to inward scrutiny, centring the internal cause (shortened the focus)
• Bleak setting intensifies rather than originates the mood; the environment mirrors his state but seems secondary (the sky was leaden)
• Satirical adverts oppress him, yet the emphasis is on his reaction, suggesting a mindset that filters the world negatively (oppressed Gordon the most)
• Self-conscious grooming signals insecurity; automatic tidying implies anxiety about being seen that stems from self-image (smoothed his hair)
• Performative bravado hints at a fragile core; the façade fools others, not himself, pointing to inward dissatisfaction (deceived simple people)
• Menacing weather personification heightens external pressure, but reads as backdrop to an already sour outlook (winter's anger)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

For a community supper at your school, organisers will print short creative pieces beside favourite recipes and are inviting entries.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a table set for a remembered meal from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about how a taste brings back a memory.

(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 table returns to me, not as a photograph but as a tide: it lifts, recedes, and lifts again, leaving a frill of salt and light along the starched linen. Afternoon pours itself through the window; in that angled light, dust turns to snow and steam to script, cursive coils that rise and unspool above the bowls. For a heartbeat I hear the hush before the first chair scrapes.

Plates sit like small moons—thick porcelain with fine crazing, a map of hairline rivers the light finds and fills; here, a chip on the rim; there, the glossed-over repair on the gravy boat, a healed wound. The cutlery is gloriously unable to agree with itself: silvered forks with narrow tines; blunt, faithful knives with worn bone handles; two spoons—mismatched—mirror one another anyway. Napkins are folded into improbable swans—too theatrical, perhaps, but somehow right. The pepper mill stands sentry beside the dimpled salt cellar; a tired candle leans in its saucer, wax lacquered over previous feasts.

The dishes arrive—carried, careful, chorused—and the room loosens. A deep pot of soup, burnished umber, breathes out rosemary and bay; a platter of carrots glows like embers; a loaf sits on a board, already torn. Butter softens to a golden lake; lemon halves glisten. Steam rises and keeps on rising, inventing weather: it blurs the clock, limns the glasses, draws brief constellations on the window before vanishing. We pass, and pass, and pass again; the ladle swings; the spoon rings; the bread goes round and round.

There is a trembling leg under the table—a wobble nobody fixes, only learns—so the bowls quiver minutely with laughter. The cloth breathes when someone leans their elbows in; it sighs back to flatness when they relent. Glass meets glass with a mild chime; the knife clicks against the plate; the scrape of a chair is small thunder. I think the soup was tomato—no, lentil (it changes each time)—but what persists is cadence: voices rising and plaiting; a question; an interruption; a vacated silence that is promptly filled.

On the mat beneath my plate, a woven pattern repeats until it becomes a maze; my fingertip follows it under the cloth. There is a mustard smear no one notices; three poppy seeds aligned like Orion. Grandmother’s gravy boat—sleek and improbable—sails in. Afterwards, the plates are cleared into the acceptable clatter of completion; the candle gutters; the steam surrenders. Chairs push back like parentheses around a finished thought; crumbs stipple the map of the table. The table remains—a palimpsest of heat-rings and stories, of careful polish and forgiven stains. I leave the room, but the meal does not leave me; it travels, folded and fragrant, like a pressed leaf.

Option B:

Taste is the most obstinate archivist; it files you away without consent, then retrieves you, whole, with a grain of sweetness or a stain of bitterness. A flake of salt, a curl of lemon, the carbon edge of coffee: keys not to doors, but to rooms you meant to leave locked. One sip, and the past doesn’t knock—it floods in, tidal, ineluctable.

On a rain-polished Thursday, I bought a coffee because my hands needed something to do. The café windows were stippled with droplets; buses sighed; the barista drew a leaf in the foam that collapsed at once. I raised the paper cup (too thin; too hot), and the first mouthful scraped my tongue—burnt, metallic. It should have tasted of this room—cardamom buns, damp coats—but it didn’t. It tasted of strip-lights that fizzed, a vending machine coughing out change, the sterile clarity of bleach.

I was seventeen again, elbows pressed into my sides as if I could keep myself from spilling. The chairs were blue and brittle; each shift made them squeal. A clock licked seconds off the wall with bureaucratic patience. My father (more silent than I remembered, or perhaps I am kinder now) sat on my left; on my right, a polystyrene cup cooled. I sipped because there was nothing else to do. It tasted like pennies; it tasted like waiting.

I remember sugar sachets lined up like little flags; the nurse with a plait the colour of wet rope; wanting to be decisive and grown, and feeling small enough to slip into someone’s pocket. The double doors guarded their secret with a soft, remorseless swing. Meanwhile, the coffee tethered me to the ritual of lids and stirrers—domestication for a wild, unmanageable fear. Back in the café, the barista asked, “Do you want sugar?” The question hung between us. I shook my head; sweetness never reached that corridor.

Then the doors parted; a doctor appeared, face composed as fresh paper. Stable, he said, each syllable a ledge. Relief made me reckless; I laughed, then cried, then drank the last of the coffee although it scalded. High, thin, unlovely, it tasted—finally—of warmth. Or perhaps I only decided to let it.

Now, as rain slackens to a shy drizzle, the present reasserts itself with a small clink of crockery. I take another sip. The flavour is still ash-dark and slightly metallic; it still carries its archive. Yet I keep drinking. Memory does not arrive to haunt me so much as to sit beside me, companionable as an old bruise. And the taste—stubborn, intransigent—turns from a key into a keepsake; not forgiven, not forgotten, but, at last, understood.

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

Option A:

Steam lifts in pale ribbons from the dishes; the room is mellow with thyme and browned onions, and the table holds the warmth like a palm keeping a secret. The cloth is cream damask, ironed so flat that light glides across it. Low winter sun slants through the window, picking out the rims of glasses and the bead of condensation at their throats. Each place is a promise. Even the shadows seem arranged.

Knives and forks lie in alignment, their polished limbs catching thin blades of light; spoons cup small worlds, doubling the candle-flame. Plates do not quite match—they never did—and the blue-edged one keeps its hairline crack, a pale river wandering inward. Napkins are folded into peaks; their cotton smells of starch and old roses. In the centre, a glass bowl holds salt like frost beside a pepper mill that looks vaguely stern.

The food arrives in generous, imperfect colours: honey-brown chicken with taut, lacquered skin; carrots glazed to a quiet shine; a dish of peas freckled with mint. From the stew pot, a low breath of steam drifts, carrying garlic and bay; it fogs my glasses for a heartbeat. Bread sits under a tea towel, the crust torn in one honest split, and when the cloth lifts, steam purls upward, butter softening on the slice. Somewhere a joint still sizzles, reluctant to surrender its heat. The jugs—water, a dark claret—wait like sentries.

This table has a history etched into it, a quiet ledger of rings and scorch marks—a map of spills and celebrations. Who would think wood could remember? Yet the chairs recall postures; they are moulded by the lean-in of talk and the chorus of cutlery. Here is the chair that rocked on a loose foot, still shimmying when nudged; here the place that is set but empty, the napkin folded with extra care, as if tidying absence. Even the air seems to listen.

Once, laughter ran in bright threads around this setting; once, voices plaited together and the clatter kept a kind rhythm. Tonight—remembered, imagined—it is a held breath. My hand hovers above the bowl and the steam beads against my skin; heat and memory conspire. The table waits: a stage, a raft, a quiet engine. In the glow of glass and linen, the meal feels almost present, as if setting it might coax everyone back.

Option B:

The first bite was bright as a struck match. Lemon split open on my tongue—clean, astringent, insistent—and the sugar, obedient, tried to soothe it; pastry sighed into flakes that clung to my lip like pale confetti. Outside, rain heckled the café window, and someone stirred a cup till the spoon chimed, but the room was already shifting, rearranging itself around that taste.

I was back in a narrow kitchen where the light came in thinly, like butter skimmed off milk. The kettle muttered to itself; the radio spoke in weather and distances. Gran zested lemons with a seriousness that always made me stand straighter. Curls of yellow skin fell in tight spirals; the knife flashed; the air glittered with oil I could not see but felt as a sting in my nose. Sugar avalanched into the bowl; butter, pale as primroses, collapsed under the wooden spoon. “Taste,” she’d say, holding the spoon out like a small flag of truce. “Trust your mouth.”

It tasted of bright afternoons where we waited for the tart to set on the windowsill, of vinegar-polished tables and the faint singe of pastry that we never admitted to. It tasted of the way she measured without measuring—pinches, smidgens, handfuls—and of the patient cruelty of lemon, how it bit and then relented. I can still see the jam jars she reused for sugar, the paper labels curling in the steam; the clock that ticked too loudly; the way her wedding ring tapped the bowl twice, by habit, before she poured. The memory arrived not in photographs but in texture and depth, as if time itself had layers you could peel.

In the café, I took another forkful—research, I told myself, though no one was asking—and felt the sudden embarrassment of realising how much I had allowed to blur. I had forgotten the exact pitch of her laugh, yes, and the particular pattern of her apron; but my mouth had remembered this, and it led me back by the hand. The present sat there with its lanyards and deadlines and the blue glow of screens; the past came up through the floorboards, uninvited and generous. What else is hidden in a flavour? What other doors are waiting for their hinges to loosen?

I licked the sugar from my thumb and reached for my phone; a recipe searched, a list begun—lemons, eggs, proper butter. Outside, rain kept writing its quick, narrow handwriting down the glass. The tart on my plate wasn’t only sugar and citrus; it was instruction, almost an imperative. Go home, it said. Bake. Remember carefully, and then do. The taste held fast like a small, bright knot, and I tightened it.

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

Option A:

The table remembers before I do. The cloth smells of starch and lemon; the weave holds sunlight in neat squares. In the centre, plates as pale as shells are stacked, hairline cracks making tiny maps. Steam climbs from a lidded dish and unravels into the afternoon. Knives lie like small oars beside forks that splay their teeth. Napkins are soft triangles. The air is salted with rosemary, and something bright—citrus, maybe—grips the room.

At the centre stands a wide earthenware dish: potatoes glossed with oil, edges amber and crisp; onions collapsed into sweetness. To the left, a jug of gravy swirls, brown upon brown, its lip stained by a single drip that will dry into a badge. To the right, a basket of hand-torn bread under a tea towel, butter resting nearby like a small, pale brick. A pepper mill keeps watch; salt sits in a cracked ramekin, glinting. A jug of water holds thin lemon moons, their rinds releasing scent. Even the window fogs a little from the heat; steam paints brief clouds, then erases them.

Meanwhile, memory lays out its own place settings. Grandad’s watch clicks; Mum’s bracelets clink—soft bells; a child’s palm prints the butter, leaving a moon. The clock nags on the mantelpiece, chairs scrape; the gravy boat trembles—careful!—as it is passed from hand to hand. Passing dishes, passing stories, passing time: we say, “Have more,” and the table absorbs it all. A ring darkens the cloth where a mug sat too long—an imperfect halo we pretended not to notice.

Afterwards, only crumbs remain, scattered like constellations. The gleam is dulled; gravy has cooled to a delicate skin; napkins have relaxed into soft, crumpled creatures. I lift a plate and notice the old scratch in the varnish—a thin, pale river catching light. It is just wood and linen, cutlery and glass; it is also an archive, the remembered meal set and reset inside me. Even now, without hands or voices, I hear the polite shunt of chairs and, strangely, I can taste the quiet.

Option B:

The first taste isn’t sweet at all; it slices across my tongue—sharp, oily, almost floral—and all at once my fork stops halfway to the plate. Seville orange, pith and peel; then sugar follows, slower, softer, like a hand on the shoulder. “Marmalade ice cream,” the menu said. My mouth says January.

I am back in our small kitchen, where the window sweated with our breath and the table had a silver scar from a dropped iron. The radio murmured by the kettle, that patient voice reciting names like prayer beads: Dogger, Fisher, German Bight, Humber. Dad’s keys clicked against the doorframe as he leaned in, scarf damp with frost, boots leaving half-moons on the mat. The toast popped up and the room smelled of carbon and warmth. He lifted the jar to the light so the orange gleamed like trapped sun. “Thin,” he said, spreading it carefully, “or your teeth will cry.”

We ate with our sleeves tugged over our hands. The taste always surprised me—bitter first; then the little lift of sweetness—but I’d pretend not to flinch because he never did. He would tap the rim of his mug twice, a habit as steady as the clock, and nod towards the window. “Storms today,” he’d say, even if the sky was a plain grey sheet. On one particular morning, the jar was nearly empty. He scooped out the last spoonful and left a crescent of peel stuck to the glass. “Save that for luck.” He laughed, and the sound filled the room like steam.

After that winter, the jar sat on the shelf a long time, sticky where the label curled. He got a different job with earlier mornings, then hardly any mornings with us at all. I kept the habit anyway: toast, a thin smear, the brief sting. It tasted like courage you borrowed, or tried to.

Now, in this café with its neat plants and echoing spoons, the cold orange on my tongue opens the door so wide I can almost step through it. How can sugar carry a whole season? How can bitterness hold a person? The spoon trembles in my hand, only a little. I think about texting him, just to say I remembered; but my phone stays face-down, sweating under the napkin.

The taste lingers—brave, clear, a thread. I sit with it, letting it pull.

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

Option A:

The table waits under the window where afternoon light falls in soft squares. Over frayed white linen, plates sit like small moons, pale and patient. Steam lifts from the dishes, curling into thin ghosts; the panes fog a little. Rosemary and lemon warm the air, a buttery edge thickening the room.

At the centre, the roast sits proud, skin browned and crackling; potatoes huddle close, rough with salt and thyme. A jug of gravy, deep and glossy, pours in a ribbon that folds on itself again and again. Bowls hold peas like green buttons and carrots slick as coins. Cutlery lies straight—some forks slightly bent—and a line of mismatched glasses waits, rims trembling at any small knock. Between the plates, there is what we reach for: salt, a clicking pepper mill, a jar of chutney someone brings every time.

A basket of bread hides under a napkin patterned with cornflower-blue leaves. Butter, pale and soft, keeps the knife-marks of the last time; it smells faintly sweet. Two small candles breathe, their flames leaning at every whisper of air. If I close my eyes, I hear the clink of a spoon, the scrape of a chair, the polite cough before we began. It was ordinary and not ordinary, the kind of meal that stitched a week together.

Beside my plate sits a smudged place card; I remember the careful hand that wrote it. Afterwards there would be crumbs, pale rings of water, napkins folded badly. Even in the remembering, the steam thins and the sun moves on, but the table stays, full of heat and a quiet hum.

Option B:

The first crack of the peppermint was a small, sudden winter in my mouth. I hadn't meant to buy them; I only needed change for the bus. The wrapper clicked as I shook one onto my tongue. It was icy-sweet, a clean brightness rushing up my nose, making my eyes prickle. Outside, wet tyres hissed and the shelter shivered with old rain. I stood with that taste—simple, sharp as a new blade—and before I could stop it, a door opened.

I am seven again, feet dangling from a plastic chair, the hospital air smelling of soap and warm dust. Everything is pale—walls, sheets, light that flickers above—but my grandmother's cardigan is the colour of raspberries. She holds a dented tin, turning it with careful fingers; when she pops the lid, the mints roll like little moons. "Don't bite it," she says, smiling, and presses one into my palm. I bite it anyway. It cracks—glass in snow—and the mint rushes like cold river water. Machines breathe quietly, and a nurse glides past. Grandma's hands are soft but spotted; her ring keeps turning. She smells faintly of lavender and disinfectant. "Brave as a button," she tells me, tapping my knee. The taste sits in my mouth and makes everything steadier, as if the bed won't float away.

The bus growls into place, brakes sighing, pulling me back. The mint is smaller now, smoother. I climb on, damp coins sticking to my palm, and sit by the window. My reflection wobbles in the glass; rain threads down in thin lines. I swallow, and her voice is there and then gone, like a bird starting and settling again. The sweetness lingers. I put the packet back in my pocket—careful, deliberate—as if it is a tiny promise I can carry home.

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

Option A:

The steam lifts in thin ribbons from the dishes in the middle, softening the room and hiding the window with a milky glaze. The table waits under a slightly creased cloth; I smooth it with my palm, listening to the faint scratch of fabric. White plates sit like shallow moons, each one catching the amber flicker of two small candles. Knives and forks glint, not perfect, a little tarnish at the necks. The smell rises—rich gravy, warm bread, a whisper of garlic—and it pulls at me, again and again.

At the centre, the big bowl hums with heat. Potatoes tumble inside it like pale stones in a river; the stew beside it sighs and pops. Glasses stand in a quiet row, thin ribs shining, ready for water that will bead and trickle. Napkins sit at each plate; I try to fix the corners; they keep springing open like little wings. A small jug of cream waits by the pudding, its lip stained with a sweet drip.

Before anyone arrives, the chairs feel expectant. One wobbles, slightly, so a folded coaster steadies it; a place card leans against a salt shaker, my name printed in careful pen. I remember last time, laughter bounced off the spoons and the window fogged. Voices rose and fell—like waves.

After the meal the table told its own story: crumbs in constellations, a smear of jam, a fork resting where a hand forgot it. The steam had gone but the warmth stayed. Even now, I can taste the bread and hear the gentle clink.

Option B:

The crisp snaps in my mouth and the vinegar pricks my tongue, sharp enough to water my eyes. It isn't just a snack; it is a switch. The tang rushes up my nose, clean and tight, and the paper bag rustles in my hand.

And suddenly, I am ten again. Wind scrapes my cheeks and the sea is talking to the stones, hushed and endless. Dad is there in his old, frayed jacket that smelt of soap and petrol. He buys chips and two bags of salt and vinegar crisps—because we can. I bite, I flinch, I grin. The taste is clean and cruel and perfect: hot chips, cold air, coarse salt on my fingers. He laughs, mouth full, says, 'Don't feed the birds or they will never leave you alone.' Gulls wheel and cry above us, greedy and bold. The paper darkens in spots where the oil soaks through. The day feels huge, like a door opening; like I could run right into it.

Back in the shop, the neon hum covers the memory, but not fully. I blink at rows of cans and the glass door with its tired sticker. I take another crisp, slower this time. How can a taste hold a place, and a person? I chew, I swallow, and the ache in my throat is not just vinegar. Outside: a bus sighs; afternoon moves on. I fold the bag closed, though I know I will open it again.

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

Option A:

Steam lifts in soft threads from the dishes and hangs under the lamp, making the room hazy. The table is set with a white cloth that is not new; a small crease runs across it like a quiet river. Four ceramic plates shine, not exactly matching, and the cutlery lies straight, almost straight. I remember this meal in winter, our coats resting on chair backs, a window fogged by breath.

In the centre, a bowl of tomato soup glows deep red, the surface trembling when a spoon touches it. Bread lies in a woven basket, wrapped in a tea towel, warm as pockets. The salt and pepper stand like small soldiers. A jug of water holds lemon slices that float like coins. Butter waits, pale and soft; the knife leaves a tidy dent. It all smells fragrant: garlic and steam.

We talk first in low voices. Then louder, then back to quiet. A laugh, a fork clinks, a chair leg scrapes and the table seems to listen. We were waiting for Grandad, he is late—he always was. After, we will scrape plates and stack them: we will wipe the cloth, sweep the crumbs. The steam thins and goes; the candle is a star.

Option B:

When the spoon touched my tongue, I stopped. The lemon cut straight through the noise of the cafe. It was bright and sugared, like sunlight on glass. It was sweet; a sharp edge of peel came after, and butter held it together. Steam climbed from my tea and rain pressed the windows like fingers.

Then the memory opened, slow but sure. I was ten again in Gran's kitchen, standing on cold tiles. The tart sat on a wire rack, a thin shine over the yellow. She hummed with the radio, tapping a spoon on the rim of a bowl. I could see everything: the checked cloth, the flour cloud, the silly chicken clock. She slid a slice to me and smiled. Careful, she said, it's still hot. The taste was the same and I couldn't swallow for a second, it locked my jaw and made my eyes water.

Suddenly I was back. A waiter asked if everything was okay, and I nodded, because how do you explain a thing like that? After that I ate slower—tiny bites, patient. I wanted to keep the flavour, to hold it, to not let her go. How can a spoonful carry a house and a laugh and a goodbye?

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

Option A:

The table is set in the small room. A candle stands, it has wax down the side. A white cloth is spread, it has a little tear. Steam goes up from a big bowl, up and up, like small clouds that cant wait. Spoons shine, forks shine too. On the cloth: two plates, three forks, a sliver knife. Bread sits in a basket, crumbs all around. The salt is in a little glass, the lid is dull. Napkins are folded like small triangles, not perfect. Two glasses are not the same, one tall, one short.

A brown ring under a cup stays there, round and stubborn.

I remember the warm smell, soup and butter and salt, it was like home. The chair creeks and the table wobbles, we wait and listen to the clock, tick tick tick. Maybe someone said grace, maybe not, but the steam keeps moving, backwards and forwards.

Option B:

Sugar on my tongue. Warm bread, butter melting. I chew and the taste is soft and sweet, like sunshine. My mouth fills up and my chest too, I don't even know why.

Then the old kitchen comes back. Not this one. Tiles chipped, the tap drip all day. Nan there, she stir the big pan, steam on the window, she hums that little song.

I didn't like onion back then, I said no, but she smiled, go on, try. I blow on the spoon, the soup burns a bit, the taste is warm and safe, like a blanket.

Now I bite and its the same, and its her voice too somehow. I want to go back for a minute. How can bread do that? I sit still... another bite.

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

Option A:

The table is full and close. There was four plates, white plates and forks. A big bowl in the middle and steam goes up like a little cloud. I remember the smell, soup and bread, it is warm and it stick to my hands. The glasses shine and the candle is a small flame, it wobbles. Chairs are tight. Knives and spoons are set straight, kind of straight. The napkin is folded, like a bird, it looks funny. Someone laughs, maybe my brother, I can hear it still. The window is dark now and the table makes a quiet sound, little taps, back and forth, back and forth.

Option B:

I taste the lemon on my tongue and it stops me. It is sour and sweet and my mouth goes tight, like when you bite a green apple. I remember my nan in the little kitchen, steam on the window, the spoon sticking to my fingers. She says slow down and laughs and the radio is loud and the toast smells warm. The light is yellow and I think I am small again, I can see my red cup and the clock ticks, its like the room is still. A bus goes past outside now and I think about school