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 city is named at the start?: Paris – 1 mark
• 1.2 Which season is mentioned?: autumn – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which house number is given in the address?: No. 33 – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which floor is specified for the room?: au troisième – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:

1 At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au troisième, No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer,

6 might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening; I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt. I looked upon it,

11 therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G——, the Prefect of the Parisian police. We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the

How does the writer use language here to present the heavy air of the room and the narrator’s thoughts before their visitor arrives? 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 analyse how sensory imagery and personification in curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere, together with the claustrophobic setting of a little back library, or book-closet and the languorous lexis twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, construct a dense, suffocating air. It would also explore how the shift to interiority—For myself, however, I was mentally discussing—within long, cumulative syntax juxtaposes profound silence with intense rumination on the affair of the Rue Morgue and the murder of Marie Rogêt, foregrounding the narrator’s analytical preoccupation before the visitor’s disruptive entrance.

The writer renders the air almost tangible through personification and confining noun phrases. The “curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber” assign agency to the fumes: the verb “oppressed” connotes weight and suffocation, making the air feel stifling for the reader. Likewise, “chamber” and the appositive “little back library, or book-closet,” with the diminutive “little,” build a lexis of enclosure. Soft sibilance in “seemed… exclusively… smoke” whispers across the “profound silence,” while “just after dark” on a “gusty” autumn evening deepens the interior gloom by contrast.

Moreover, the narrator’s thoughts are cast as luxurious yet disciplined. He enjoys the “twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum,” a poised pairing that balances abstract thought with the concrete pipe; the m-alliteration softens the rhythm, suggesting unhurried contemplation. Beneath the surface stillness, “For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics” uses formal diction to imply methodical reasoning. The appositive clarification, “I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt,” deploys parallel nouns and precise proper names to expose focused preoccupation rather than idle reverie.

Additionally, complex sentence forms mirror this dense atmosphere and inward drift. The long, multi-clausal period—“For one hour at least…; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed…”—with parenthesis and a semicolon slows pace, suspending time. Thus, when the door “was thrown open and admitted” the visitor, the sudden, personifying verb choices jolt the hush, confirming how heavy the air and how deep the narrator’s thoughts had been beforehand.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that sensory imagery and personification create a heavy mood: the 'curling eddies of smoke' that oppressed the atmosphere and the profound silence make the room feel stifling, while the long, layered sentences and detailed setting of the little back library and au troisième slow the pace. It would also note the narrator’s focused thoughts, with "I was mentally discussing" the affair of the Rue Morgue and "murder of Marie Rogêt," before the dynamic verb "door... thrown open" contrasts with the calm to introduce the visitor.

The writer uses personification and imagery to present the heavy air. The phrase “curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber” personifies the smoke as actively “oppressing,” which suggests weight and claustrophobia. The visual image of “curling eddies” implies slow, lingering movement, making the room feel thick and stagnant. Likewise, the noun phrases “little back library” and “book-closet” emphasise how enclosed the space is, while the setting “just after dark” on a “gusty evening” reinforces a gloomy, airless mood.

Moreover, sentence form helps to convey the narrator’s reflective thoughts. The long, complex sentence with a semicolon in “For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each… might have seemed” slows the pace, mirroring quiet contemplation. The hyperbolic phrase “a profound silence” deepens the stillness, and the paired noun phrase “twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum” shows indulgent, unhurried introspection; the concrete noun “meerschaum” evokes pipe smoke, further thickening the atmosphere.

Furthermore, discourse markers such as “For myself, however” and “therefore” reveal a logical, analytical mind. His thoughts are fixed on the “affair of the Rue Morgue” and the “mystery attending the murder,” a semantic field of crime that darkens his mood. Thus, language and structure together present both the oppressive air and his absorbed, methodical thinking just before the visitor arrives.

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 setting and imagery to make the air feel heavy: "just after dark" and "gusty evening" set a gloomy mood, and the phrase "curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere" personifies the smoke to show the room is thick and oppressive. The narrator’s thoughts are shown by him being "mentally discussing" past cases, listing "the affair of the Rue Morgue" and "the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt", while the "profound silence" and long sentences slow the pace to suggest quiet thinking before the visitor arrives.

The writer uses imagery and personification to show the heavy air. The phrase “curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber” makes the room feel weighed down; the verb “oppressed” suggests the smoke is pressing on the air. The setting “little back library, or book-closet” implies a cramped space.

Furthermore, the adjective “profound” in “profound silence” emphasises a dense quiet, while “just after dark” and “gusty” add to the gloomy mood. The calm “twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum” suggests the speaker is settled and still.

Moreover, the narrator’s thoughts are shown through a long, complex sentence: “For myself, however, I was mentally discussing… I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue.” This formal phrasing shows careful, analytical thinking. Additionally, “For one hour at least” and the list of cases show he has been absorbed in thought before the visitor arrives.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might simply notice words like "curling eddies of smoke" and "oppressed the atmosphere" to show the air is heavy and smoky, and basic phrases such as "profound silence" and "mentally discussing" to show the narrator is quiet and thinking before the visitor arrives; it might also say the long opening with "just after dark" makes the scene feel slow and calm.

The writer uses adjectives like “gusty” and “profound” to show the air is heavy, and the phrase “curling eddies of smoke” gives imagery of thick smoke.

Furthermore, the personification “oppressed the atmosphere” makes the room feel weighed down and stuffy.

Additionally, the noun “meditation” and the verb phrase “mentally discussing” show his quiet thoughts, while the long sentence “For one hour at least...” suggests slow, steady thinking before the visitor arrives.

Moreover, the “little back library” sounds small, adding to the heavy air.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Setting opener (time/weather) → establishes a dim, unsettled backdrop that primes an oppressive indoor mood → just after dark
• Elevated, indulgent diction → suggests lingering self-absorption that invites thick, smoky stillness → twofold luxury
• Confining spatial noun choice → implies a cramped, airless space that traps smoke → book-closet
• Specific upper-floor detail → hints at seclusion above the street, away from fresh air → au troisième
• Duration plus high-register abstraction → deepens the weight of the hush in the room → profound silence
• Personification/metaphor of smoke → makes the air feel physically heavy and suffocating → oppressed the atmosphere
• External viewpoint vs reality → surface impression masks inward absorption in thought → to any casual observer
• Discourse marker with cognition → foregrounds ongoing analytical inwardness before the interruption → mentally discussing
• Dark case allusions → saturate the mind’s atmosphere with crime and unease → the affair of the Rue Morgue
• Dynamic intrusion at the door → sudden movement contrasts with prior stasis, highlighting earlier heaviness → thrown open

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 mystery?

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would track how the text shifts from the enclosed calm of just after dark and profound silence to the disruptive, coincidental entrance of the Prefect (something of a coincidence), using repeated darkness (we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark) and ironic paradox (simple and odd, a little too self-evident) alongside a tonal turn from mockery (Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!) to gravity (the greatest secrecy) to build suspense. It would also note strategic withholding—elliptical references like a certain document, from a very high quarter, shall be nameless, and most exalted station—and the framing nod to prior enigmas (the affair of the Rue Morgue, the mystery attending the murder of Marie Rogêt), so that by the end the stakes rise while key details are deferred, sharpening the sense of mystery.

One way the writer structures mystery is by establishing calm equilibrium and then disrupting it, foregrounded by darkness and omission. The scene is set 'just after dark... in the autumn of 18-'; the truncated date and unlit room ('we had been sitting in the dark') withhold specifics. This meditative exposition ('twofold luxury of meditation') lulls us until the door 'was thrown open' to admit the Prefect, an inciting incident that accelerates pace and shifts focus from reverie to 'official business'. Dupin’s choice to keep the lamp unlit makes darkness a motif of secrecy.

In addition, a restricted first-person perspective and delayed revelation via dialogic structure sustain the enigma. The Prefect promises disclosure ('I will tell you'), yet resorts to evasive labels ('a certain document', 'a very high quarter', 'a personage of most exalted station'). Such strategic withholding, plus the paradoxical refrain 'simple' yet 'odd', activates an enigma code, drip-feeding information while denying names and details. Simultaneously, tone shifts from laughter to warnings of 'the greatest secrecy', raising stakes while keeping decisive facts invisible.

A further structural choice is a controlled crescendo to an unresolved hook. Analeptic nods to earlier cases ('Rue Morgue', 'Marie Rogêt') foreshadow Dupin’s method, priming us for detection; yet the present narrative culminates only in consequences: 'honor... jeopardized' and 'ascendancy', not identities. By climaxing with implications rather than answers, and by modulating pace from contemplative stasis to high-stakes secrecy, the writer ensures the mystery fully emerges by the end and propels the reader forward.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would typically identify that the writer builds mystery by opening in darkness (just after dark, profound silence, sitting in the dark) then shifting focus as the door of our apartment was thrown open, with Dupin forebore to enkindle the wick to keep the consultation in the dark, sustaining suspense. Through delayed, vague disclosure in dialogue—mentions of a certain document from a very high quarter requiring the greatest secrecy, and the paradoxical refrain of simple, odd, and a little too self-evident that baffles us altogether—the text withholds key details to keep the reader guessing about the document’s power.

One way the writer structures the opening to create mystery is through a careful exposition. The first-person narrator fixes time and place, “at Paris, just after dark … in the autumn of 18-,” but withholds the exact year. The sustained perspective limits our knowledge, and the prolonged “profound silence” delays the central problem. Even small actions, like Dupin refusing to light the lamp, postpone clarity.

In addition, there is a clear shift in focus and pace when “the door … was thrown open” and the Prefect enters. This inciting incident moves us from description into dialogue and a secretive tone. The dialogue drip-feeds information: promises to “tell you” and “greatest secrecy” raise stakes but avoid specifics. This gradual revelation makes us ask who, what and why, building mystery.

A further structural feature is deliberate withholding and anonymity. Proper names are reduced to initials (“Monsieur G——”), the year is blanked (“18-”), and even the powerful figures are unnamed (“a personage of most exalted station”). The repeated antithesis “simple” and “odd” sets up a paradox not resolved by the close. By the end, we know of a purloined document that gives “power,” but key details remain concealed, sustaining mystery.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would note the writer starts in darkness and silence (just after dark, profound silence) then shifts when the door of our apartment was thrown open, and by repeating simple/odd and using vague hints (greatest secrecy, a certain document, from a very high quarter) holds back details to make the reader curious about the mystery.

One way the writer structures the opening to create mystery is by starting with a calm, dark setting and first-person narration. 'Just after dark' and sitting 'in the dark' in a tiny library make a secret mood and limit what we can see.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts when the Prefect enters, moving from quiet to 'official business' and 'greatest secrecy'. The dialogue in short exchanges ('simple and odd', 'a little too self-evident') changes the pace and delays the explanation, so we keep wondering.

A further structural feature is withholding information at the end. We hear of 'a certain document' from 'a very high quarter' and 'a personage of most exalted station', but names are missing, so the extract ends with unanswered questions and the mystery growing.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies that the text opens with 'profound silence' and 'in the dark', then shifts when 'the Prefect' arrives and mentions 'Simple and odd' events. Notes that by the end the stolen 'document' from the 'royal apartments' and emphasis on 'secrecy' make it mysterious.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create mystery is the opening after dark. The silence feels secret and calm, so the reader wonders what hidden problem will appear.

In addition, there is a shift in focus when the Prefect arrives. Dialogue takes over and they mention secrecy and a “certain document.” Not telling us names or details makes the situation puzzling and mysterious.

A further structural feature is the ending. It stops with hints about power over an important person but no solution, so the unresolved ending keeps the mystery and makes us read on.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Time and weather in the opening frontload secrecy and unease before any problem is stated (just after dark)
• Confinement and smoke-thick atmosphere suggest concealment and privacy, priming suspicion (little back library)
• Retrospective allusions to earlier cases frame the genre and foreshadow another enigma (Rue Morgue)
• A sudden interruption of long silence by a visitor shifts pace and signals the arrival of a problem (thrown open)
• Partial naming and redaction build institutional secrecy and distance the reader from full knowledge (Monsieur G——)
• Dialogue structure drip-feeds information, using a paradox of simplicity versus difficulty to hook curiosity (baffles us altogether)
• A recurring darkness motif, including refusing to light the lamp, literalises obscurity and methodical concealment (to better purpose in the dark)
• Procedural cautions raise stakes while withholding specifics, intensifying the reader’s need to know (the greatest secrecy)
• Vague identifiers and euphemism keep core facts hidden while hinting at influence and leverage (a certain document)
• The ending fixes high social stakes without revealing the content, sharpening the central unknown that propels the narrative (personage of most exalted station)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 21 to the end.

In this part of the source, the Prefect of Police laughs loudly at Dupin’s ideas and calls them ‘odd’. The writer suggests that this powerful man is not as clever as his job title suggests and cannot understand Dupin's way of thinking.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the Prefect's reaction to Dupin's ideas
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the Prefect's intellectual limits
• 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 typical Level 4 response would largely agree that the writer undercuts the Prefect’s intellect, citing the narratorial aside that he has a "fashion of calling every thing 'odd' that was beyond his comprehension," so he "lived amid an absolute legion of 'oddities'," and his derisive "Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!" when Dupin hints that "the very simplicity of the thing" thwarts them. They would also note that, though he stresses status by demanding "the greatest secrecy" to keep "the position I now hold," the diction of "cant of diplomacy" and the brusque "What nonsense you do talk!" expose a powerful man who cannot grasp Dupin’s thinking.

I largely agree with the statement. In this exchange, the writer satirises the Prefect as a powerful official whose habitual incomprehension prevents him from grasping Dupin’s counterintuitive method, though he retains some procedural competence.

From the outset, Poe contrasts Dupin’s paradoxical method with the Prefect’s reflexive dismissal. Dupin’s aphorism that “we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark” signals lateral thinking; the Prefect instantly brands this “another of your odd notions.” The narrator’s incisive intrusion—he “had a fashion of calling every thing ‘odd’ that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of ‘oddities’”—deploys hyperbole and metaphor to ridicule him: “legion” evokes a whole army of bafflements besieging his mind. This evaluative commentary explicitly frames the Prefect’s cri de coeur of “odd” as a defensive tic, exposing a chronic inability to understand.

The dialogue structure then intensifies this contrast. Dupin’s poised repetitions—“Perhaps it is the very simplicity… Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain… A little too self-evident”—are measured and epigrammatic. Opposite them, the Prefect’s responses erupt in exclamatives and derision: “What nonsense you do talk!”; “Oh, good heavens!”; and finally the graphically rendered laughter, “Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!” He “roared,” “laughing heartily,” adverbs and reporting verbs that connote bombast and complacency. This orchestrated antithesis positions him as a comic foil: where Dupin entertains a paradox, the Prefect hears only “nonsense.” The effect is dramatic irony; the reader aligns with Dupin’s calm acuity as he placidly “supplied his visitor with a pipe” and “rolled towards him a comfortable chair,” a courteous staging that subtly infantilises the blustering official.

When the Prefect finally discloses the case, his language further undermines him. He boasts it is “very simple indeed” and that they “can manage it,” yet admits they are “a good deal puzzled… because it is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether.” He recognises the paradox but cannot interpret it. His register is steeped in what the narrator skewers as “the cant of diplomacy”: hedging and euphemism—“a very high quarter,” “a certain document,” “a certain power in a certain quarter.” Even his logic—“It is clearly inferred”—sounds pompous rather than precise, prompting Dupin’s corrective, “Be a little more explicit.” The “long, steady and contemplative puff” reads as performative gravitas, aligning him with status (“the position I now hold”) rather than insight.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: through narratorial judgement, ironic dialogue, and a sustained contrast in register, the writer suggests that, despite his authority and access to facts, the Prefect cannot comprehend Dupin’s way of thinking and is not as intellectually sharp as his title implies.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree, explaining that the writer undercuts the Prefect’s intellect despite his authority by narrating he has a fashion of calling every thing "odd" that was beyond his comprehension and by showing him scoff What nonsense you do talk! and roar Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho! at Dupin’s idea the truth may be A little too self-evident. It would also note the ironic contradiction in his claim the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether and that he is fond of the cant of diplomacy, implying bluster rather than insight and supporting the view he cannot grasp Dupin’s thinking.

I largely agree that the writer presents the Prefect as powerful but not especially perceptive, and unable to grasp Dupin’s way of thinking. From the outset, his dismissive reaction to Dupin’s suggestion of thinking “in the dark” is framed as a habit: the narrator’s intrusive aside that he “had a fashion of calling every thing ‘odd’ that was beyond his comprehension” uses evaluative narration to undermine him. The hyperbolic metaphor “lived amid an absolute legion of ‘oddities’” suggests that much lies beyond his understanding, weakening the authority his title implies.

The dialogue further exposes his limits. Dupin’s measured, paradoxical propositions—“Perhaps it is the very simplicity… too plain… too self-evident”—are crafted through repetition and a kind of tricolon that invites careful reflection. By contrast, the Prefect’s response—“What nonsense you do talk!” followed by “Ha! ha! ha—… ho! ho! ho!”—is rendered through graphological depiction of laughter and the dynamic verb “roared,” creating an ironic tone. His hearty amusement positions him as complacent and closed-minded, so the reader is primed to trust Dupin’s lateral logic over official certainty.

Structurally, the exchange moves from mockery to the Prefect’s exposition of the case. Here the writer uses diction to suggest superficial sophistication. Phrases like “a certain document,” “a very high quarter,” and “a personage of most exalted station” show euphemism and, as the narrator notes, the Prefect is “fond of the cant of diplomacy.” This suggests jargon rather than insight. Even his reasoning—“It is clearly inferred… from the non-appearance of certain results”—relies on inference presented as certainty, hinting at shaky logic. His self-satisfied body language (“a long, steady and contemplative puff,” “settled himself in his chair”) also conveys complacency.

However, he is not wholly inept: his insistence on “the greatest secrecy” and his grasp of the document’s political leverage show bureaucratic awareness. Overall, though, the writer’s use of ironic narration, dialogue, and contrast persuades me that the Prefect is intellectually outmatched by Dupin and cannot comprehend his mode of thought.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would mostly agree, noticing the Prefect calls Dupin’s ideas "odd", reacts by "laughing heartily" and saying "What nonsense you do talk!", showing they are "beyond his comprehension". It might also spot the simple contradiction "very simple indeed" yet "baffles us altogether", and mention he is "fond of the cant of diplomacy", suggesting he sounds important but doesn’t really understand.

I mostly agree that the writer presents the Prefect as powerful but not very clever, and he does not understand Dupin’s way of thinking. At the start he immediately labels Dupin’s idea as “odd”. The narrator’s comment that the Prefect “had a fashion of calling every thing ‘odd’ that was beyond his comprehension” directly suggests limited understanding. The repetition of “odd” and the exaggerated phrase “a legion of ‘oddities’” make him seem dismissive and a bit foolish.

The writer also uses dialogue and tone to show this. When Dupin suggests “the very simplicity of the thing” might be the problem, the Prefect calls it “nonsense” and “laughed heartily”. The repeated “ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!” shows noisy laughter, which makes him look mocking rather than thoughtful. This contrasts with Dupin’s calm, precise lines like “a little too self-evident,” which the Prefect cannot grasp.

When he explains the case, the Prefect sounds vague and pompous. He talks about “a certain document” in “a certain quarter,” and the narrator says he “was fond of the cant of diplomacy.” This word choice suggests jargon instead of clear thinking. Even the way he takes a “long, steady and contemplative puff” feels like performance more than intelligence, especially as Dupin has to ask him to “be a little more explicit.”

Overall, I agree with the statement. Although he has authority and some information (“beyond a doubt”), the humour and irony throughout make him seem unable to follow Dupin’s more subtle logic.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because the Prefect keeps calling Dupin’s ideas 'odd' and is 'laughing heartily' with 'Ha! ha! ha—ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho! ho!', showing he doesn’t understand them. This makes him seem less clever than his title, as Dupin says it is the 'very simplicity' that puts him at fault.

I agree with the statement. The Prefect laughs at Dupin’s ideas and keeps calling them “odd”, so he does not seem as clever as his position.

At the start, when Dupin says they will “examine it… in the dark,” the Prefect replies it is “another of your odd notions.” The narrator adds he had a habit of calling everything “odd” that was “beyond his comprehension,” and he lived among a “legion of ‘oddities’.” This repetition shows he doesn’t understand.

He also says the business is “very simple indeed” and that they can “manage it… ourselves,” but then admits they are “puzzled” and it “baffles us altogether.” This simple/“baffles” contrast suggests confusion. When Dupin hints “the very simplicity” is the problem, the Prefect answers, “What nonsense you do talk!” and roars, “Ha! ha! ha—… ho! ho! ho!” This dialogue and exclamation marks show he mocks Dupin.

The writer still shows he is powerful: he warns about “secrecy” and might “lose the position I now hold,” and he likes the “cant of diplomacy.” But he asks Dupin to be “a little more explicit.”

Overall, I agree the Prefect is important but not very insightful, and he cannot follow Dupin’s thinking.

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:

• Authorial aside frames the Prefect’s habit as defensive labelling, implying limits to understanding and inviting agreement that he’s out of his depth (beyond his comprehension)
• Exaggerated, onomatopoeic laughter makes his confidence seem crass and blinkered, so the reader doubts his judgment (Ha! ha! ha—)
• Paradox of a case “simple” yet confounding exposes his shallow reasoning, supporting Dupin’s critique (baffles us altogether)
• Dialogue contrast (Dupin’s calm hypotheses vs. instant dismissal) suggests the Prefect can’t entertain counter‑intuitive ideas (What nonsense you do talk!)
• Diction of jargon signals image over insight; he relies on formulaic talk rather than clear analysis (cant of diplomacy)
• Contrast in staging (Dupin’s methodical darkness vs scoffing) shows the Prefect’s impatience with unconventional but effective method (odd notions)
• Emphasis on secrecy and career risk positions him as status‑minded more than intellectually rigorous, undermining his authority (lose the position)
• Limited mitigation: he can draw logical implications, so he isn’t wholly inept, just less perceptive than Dupin (clearly inferred)
• Vague euphemisms create imprecision, reinforcing the sense he cloaks uncertainty rather than penetrates it (a certain document)
• Hyperbolic banter treats inquiry as amusement, diminishing his seriousness and perceived acuity (the death of me)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A journal on maritime life is inviting submissions for a special edition on work at sea.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe the deck of a large vessel in rough seas from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a difficult decision made during a long voyage.

(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 deck rears, then kneels, a sheet of wet steel tilted against a sky the colour of iron filings. Wind harrows the air; spindrift lashes sideways in hissing veils. Under the pallid glare of sodium lamps, spray becomes a brief constellation; then it is gone, flung over the gunwales. Every surface gleams treacherously, as if the ship has been freshly lacquered by the storm. Ahead, water is not water but muscle; it swells and shoulders back, insisting.

Everything moves, everything strains: moorings sing through their cleats; the anchor chain thuds in its pocket; deck plates quiver. At the bow, a winch ticks like an anxious heart; at the stern, a hatch rattles with a dry metallic chide. The hull complains in whale-long vowels; under that voice the engine’s thrum lays down its implacable bass.

Concurrently, along the starboard walkway, figures in oilskins shuttle with deliberate grace, their boots suctioning against the slick; a gloved hand clips a carabiner to a stanchion at the guardrail, then another. A voice crackles over the radio—clipped, unromantic. Someone laughs, incongruously, a thin blade whisked away by the gale; someone else mutters a prayer that is more habit than hope. A cable hums like a live thing along the rail. Their faces shine with salt; their eyes do not leave the water.

A wall of water rises, hesitates, and simply walks aboard.

It breaks as a weight, not a liquid, and the deck becomes an instant river, icy and opaque with foam. Knees jar; knuckles bite; a wrench skitters, lunatic, toward the scuppers. The scuppers gulp greedily, coughing; the water considers leaving, then doubles back as the bow buries and the stern flicks skyward. Diesel breathes its raw breath; rust tastes like blood. The air smells stitched with brine and oil; the cold is articulate, needling every seam. Somewhere a lashing bangs—sharp, sharp, pause, sharp—and a man swears through his teeth.

Nevertheless, the choreography persists. A palm signals; a lever yields; a valve is eased. Despite the mayhem, there is method: charts are stowed, a kettle clicks, someone cradles heat between wet sleeves. Above, the bridge windows blink with spray; below, the ship calculates angles, balances burdens. The sea speaks in arguments; the vessel replies with stubborn grammar.

Far out, where the horizon is a single grey tendon, waves unspool like iron-backed animals; they keep coming, patient as geology. The deck heaves, then hovers; it is impossible and yet ordinary. Up and under, up and under, up and under. Boots drum; chains sing; gulls—ragged, opportunistic—snipe at the foam and vanish. And while the world pitches and reels, the ship goes forward, obstinate—a lit rectangle of resolve in a world of wrack, not elegant perhaps, but enduring.

Option B:

By the fourth week, the ocean had unstitched the calendar and sewn its own: days notched by the bruise of dawn, nights salted with the cold gleam of constellations that felt both unfamiliar and ancestral. The voyage had lengthened into a kind of sentence—measured not in miles but in the salt crusting our sleeves, in the way the wind found new seams in our bones. Spray applauded the bow; rigging sang a high, taut note; diesel breathed its sour warmth below decks. The sea did not argue or console. It watched, inscrutable, as we moved across it like a thin, necessary scar.

Mara stood at the helm of Halcyon, fingers splayed on the wheel as if she could read the sea through its varnish. The chart lay open like a map of veins; the compass trembled, faithful and anxious. Beside it, the refrigerated crate hummed, a subdued heart. On its digital face, numbers blipped down in implacable neon: 03:17:42. Then 41. Then 40. Within the white casing—swaddled in gel packs and careful promise—was a vaccine that had to reach Ember Island before the chill failed and the cure evaporated into a story. The storm they had been outrunning all afternoon thickened on the horizon: a bruise blooming, slow and inevitable. So many forces converged, and yet it came down to one thing. Choice.

A flare lifted to starboard—brief, uncanny, a sickle of orange clawing at the sky. For a beat... nothing. Then the radio fractured into a voice, thin as blown glass: “Mayday, Mayday—this is Albatross—engine failure—taking on water—coordinates—three miles east of White Reef—please—” The words cascaded, too fast, tangled by static. Rafi’s eyes flicked to Mara’s as he marked the position; Dina adjusted the throttle that juddered under her hand. The detour would cost them at least forty-five minutes; the storm, should it break, would cost more. The timer continued its unsentimental countdown. The room seemed to contract until only two needles remained: the compass and the relentless red seconds.

In training, they had turned law into mantra: you answer a distress call at sea. Full stop. Her father, years ago, had said it differently while mending nets in a kitchen that smelled of brine and oil: if you have a light, you show it; the sea sometimes returns what you offer. Yet Ember Island had written, too—names, ages, fevers; a list that read like prayer and indictment. Who do you save when you cannot save everyone? The question slid under her ribs, cold as the gel packs. She could almost feel the island leaning towards her, a poor, patient horizon.

“Captain?” Rafi’s voice was soft, but the word carried weight. Captain. It sounded both borrowed and undeniable.

She inhaled, tasting metal and rain and a filament of fear. Numbers marched on: 03:16:09. She thought of the syringe slipping into a child’s arm; she thought of a man clinging to a white-blue hull, salt burning old cuts into new. Two truths, two tides, colliding. Her hands found steadiness before her heart agreed.

“Bring her about,” she said. “Hard to starboard—now. Dina, rig the sling. Rafi, call back and hold them on the line. Jo, pack the crate tighter—use the spare gel, wrap the whole thing in blankets, shut the cabin vents. We buy the cold; we buy the time.”

The Halcyon turned, not gracefully but with conviction, the bow carving a fresh intention into the chop. The storm made a low, considering sound. The timer ticked on. Somewhere in the middle of all that noise, Mara felt the decision settle—a stone in a pocket, a promise that would weigh her until the voyage finished counting her. She did not flinch.

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

Option A:

The deck pitches like a living lung beneath my boots, inhaling and exhaling in slow, brutal waves. Wind rifles through the rigging; the lines thrash like startled eels. Spindrift scours my cheeks; salt tastes metallic. Diesel breath hangs; the metal smells old and wet. Above, the sky is a slab of pewter, pressed low; ahead, the sea pales, then gathers its knuckled fists. Somewhere inside a deep, patient thud travels through the plates—the ship’s heart, obstinate, steady. It is frightening and beautiful at once.

Water runs in sudden sheets, then separates into nervous rivulets that stitch into brief mirrors. Spume barrels over the gunwale; scuppers cough and swallow; puddles tremble when the hull shudders. The stanchions—salt-flecked, obdurate—ring like tuning forks as heavier waves land. Winches crouch like iron animals; the capstan hums an uneven hymn. Ropes—swollen, furred with brine—drag against cleats and sigh. The safety rail is a cold spine beneath my gloves. A slick of oil rainbows a corner: colour in a world scrubbed nearly to grey.

Then the wave arrives not as liquid but as architecture, a green wall with a white-laced edge. It rises, pauses, and falls. It smashes; it erases; it remakes. For a suspended second there is only water, heavy and indifferent, hammering the deck, thickening the air. We bend; we brace. When it withdraws, the ship gives a gasp, and everything moves at once: a spanner skitters toward the scupper, my weight rushes to my toes. Breath comes short and white—little ghosts. Heart knocks to the swell’s rhythm: up, pause, down, harder; up again.

Crew move with rehearsed economy; harness clips click; orders are barked, then torn sideways by the gale. Faces are carved down to essentials—eyes narrowed, mouths set, rain and salt indistinguishable. A red lamp in the wheelhouse pulses; the compass swings and recovers. This steel plain is a workplace and a frontier: method layered over chaos, procedure stitched across fear. A bucket rattles into a corner and insists on its tap-tap—an absurd metronome while the storm writes its louder time.

Between squalls the world briefly widens. The horizon unscrews; a watery light bleeds toward us, tinting the clouds a diluted peach. Steam rises from my sleeves; salt crystals lace the rail like fragile frost. Even the sea seems thoughtful, rolling rather than flailing, shouldering the hull instead of slapping it. But it is only a breath; the next gust is already building its teeth. We stand in it anyway—small, stubborn, balanced on this moving metal island—listening to the ocean’s difficult music and trusting the vessel’s deep, industrial heartbeat.

Option B:

Day thirty-two. The ocean looked exactly like it had on day one: implacable, cold, repeating itself in slow, heaving paragraphs. The horizon was a thin blade that cut the sky and sea into obedient halves. Our world shrank to the ship’s ribs and ropes; the rest had been ground off by distance. The engine thudded its heavy heart; the air smelled of diesel braided with salt. Out here, time didn’t walk; it drifted.

I stood in the wheelhouse doorway with my hands hooked on the rain-slick rail, staring at the bright yellow submersible cinched to the forward deck. Its name — Aurora — was stencilled in black, the letters already scabbed by salt. My father’s handwriting had looked like that on the plans he left me: stubborn, angular, patient. He built the prototype in our garage when I was twelve; I promised that I would carry it to the deepest trench and bring back proof of his brilliance. Promises are easy on dry land.

Below us the bilge pumps worked like lungs under panic. We had hit a raft of driftwood and the starboard hull took a bruise; not a hole, the captain said (not yet), but a wound that wanted to be one. The forecast was a litany — gale warnings, falling pressure, a storm from the south like a fist. To stop the water climbing we had to choose: keep the Aurora and risk the crew, or cut her free and save speed and safety. Cargo or lives. Legacy or duty.

“Decide,” the captain had said, his voice flat as the charts. The men were watching me; a daughter’s birthday ringed on a calendar, a split knuckle, a grin gone quiet. I thought of budgets and the kitchen door at home where my father once pinned a note: Trust the water but not too much. The paper had yellowed. Memory is a kind of ballast; it keeps you steady and it can drag you under.

Spray flicked my cheeks like small, sharp slaps. The sky thickened into a grey bruise; the gulls abandoned their lazy orbit. I clattered down to the deck and stopped by the release lever. It was red and chipped and felt colder than it should have — like a verdict. Around me the crew moved with exaggerated calm; even silence is loud at sea. Was I really going to throw my father’s work to the bottom of an ocean he’d loved? Or ask these people to sleep tonight on a softer, selfish choice?

I could hear the pumps stutter. I could hear the wind trying on its first foreign syllables. In the end, the choice was not brave or cinematic; it was ordinary, necessary. I put my palm to the lever, breathed, and pulled.

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

Option A:

The deck heaves under my boots, then drops, as if the ship is breathing too hard. Water slides along the steel and hisses through scuppers that spit. The rail is slick, salt-burnished; the non-slip paint is chewed thin and glints a treacherous grey. Wind claws at everything. Diesel, rust, brine: the taste sits on my tongue. Above, the mast scribbles erratic arcs across a sky the colour of pewter. Beyond the rail, the sea is a corrugated plain, torn and stitched with white.

Further along, coils of rope belly and tighten, thudding against cleats with patient fury; chain trembles on the winch drum and then is still. A red lifeboat hunkers in its cradle, portholes weeping; deck lights flicker, then hold. Winters of paint lie scored by boots and salt; every flake tells on the metal. Salt crust gathers in seams and around bolt heads—white, stubborn, like a frost that will not melt. Meanwhile the sea presses its face to us and shouts. Foam leaps the rail, then drags back, leaving bubbles that pop like brittle knuckles.

A crewman in yellow oilskins hauls himself hand over hand along the safety line. He keeps small, as if that will help. His gloves leave wet prints that vanish almost before they appear. He points; he nods; his mouth works, but the gale steals any agreement. The bow slams, the deck answers with a booming thud, and something loose skitters under a crate. Below, the engine keeps time—steady, stubborn—so we know where the heart is. Yet every groan of the hull sounds like an old animal complaining in its sleep.

For a moment there is a levelling. Spray falls like glass beads, and the horizon steadies; even the gulls hold off. Then the wave rears—green-black, unkind—and the ship climbs, unwilling, into its shoulder. Water thunders across the plates, cold enough to burn, sweeping past boots and into grated drains; it finds every low place. I clutch the rail and feel it shiver. The pattern resumes: up, pause, down—again, again. Still the deck holds. Still the vessel shoulders forward into weather with no intention of easing.

Option B:

Dawn was thin and pewter, skimming the creased skin of the ocean. Twenty days out from Plymouth, the ship had learned our names; rope creaked them, the engine thrummed them under our feet. Salt dried white on the rails and in the seams of our sleeves. Even the gulls had given up on us days ago, and the horizon was a hard rule, unflinching, as if it would not be bent for anyone.

The chart lay open like a confession, edges swollen from damp and worry. Two routes. The long arc past the island chain — soundings, safe anchorages, time. Or the straight line that bit through the storm-belt, a savage grey wound, but quicker by a week, maybe more. Our water casks were shrinking; I could hear them slosh thinner each morning, a smaller voice. We had cargo that could not be late, and faces waiting at the other side. Yet we had a crew, too, with blistered hands and tongues already tasting tin.

I traced the lines with the tip of a nail and thought of the folded photograph in my pocket: Isla on the harbour steps, her cardigan too big, her smile a little tilted as if the wind had moved it. “Back before the frost,” I had said, reckless with spring promises. The barometer sulked and the sky had that greased look storms get when they’re thinking. O’Malley, our mate, watched me over his mug. “Captain,” he said, almost gently, “if we’re going round, we go now.” His voice made the choice sound simple; the sea did not.

Because decisions at sea are not just ropes and angles; they are calculations of trust. If I turned us into the belt and we shredded canvas, who would forgive me? If we went wide and the water ran to its shadow, who would I tell first? The ship seemed to lean towards the straighter line, impatient, a horse worrying the bit. Or perhaps that was only me.

I rang the bell to muster them, and boots thudded on boards like a slow drum. Faces upturned, weathered, expectant. I tasted salt, and something metallic.

“We choose now,” I said, hand poised over the wheel, the world narrowed to a finger’s breadth of ink between two impossible blues.

And the wind, unhelpful as ever, held its breath.

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

Option A:

The deck was a tilted world of metal and water. Great surges of sea slumped across it, then hissed away, leaving broken foam and a smear of oil. The vessel leaned, slow and stubborn; the railings shivered under each hit. Wind tore at the flags, tore at breath, tore at thought. The horizon was a crooked line, pale and bruised.

Ropes lay coiled and uncoiled themselves as the ship rolled — black snakes kicking at boots. Chains rang like a rough bell. A lifeboat, bright as a warning, knocked against its davits with a hollow thud. The deck plates were slick, scarred with salt and rust; the salt stung the tongue and cracked the lips. The air smelled of diesel and brine, a sharp, metallic taste carried by spray. Radar spun on the mast, slicing the rain into ribbons, though it just kept coming.

Crew moved as if in a dance they didn’t choose. Their jackets flared, their hands clung to stanchions, and their voices were scattered by the gale. One shouted and pointed; another clipped on a line, cautious, careful, then stepped, then stopped, then stepped again. Boots thudded, slipped, thudded. Above them, the lights blinked — an uncertain pulse in the wet grey.

Everything beat to the same relentless rhythm: wave, crash, drain, breathe. It was noisy, a whole orchestra that had forgotten a tune, yet something about it was steady. The ship groaned but held; the deck shook but kept its shape. A wall of water rose taller than a house and broke, white and furious, over the bow. It poured, it slammed, it passed. In the wake, the metal shone as if polished; rivets gleamed in a weak shard of light, and the next surge gathered again.

Option B:

For days, the sea was the colour of tin, dull under a tired sky. The deck groaned like an old door, and salt laced everything—our clothes, our lips, even our sleep. The horizon refused to move; the voyage stretched like a rope through numb hands.

Our barrels had sunk to their shadows. Captain Hale traced a route on a stained map, but his eyes kept flicking to the glass nailed by the wheel. The wind grew mean. “We’ll ride through,” someone said. “We’ll ride lighter,” he answered; the word landed hard: jettison.

In the hold, the air was sour with tar and damp rope. We shifted crates of bolts, a chest of tools, a barrel of nails that chattered like teeth. My trunk waited at the back, scabbed with paint, rope-burned at the corners. Inside were letters thinned by years, my mother’s careful loops, a bleached photograph, a watch that no longer ticked. Above us the hull thunked; the first big wave had found us.

The ship rolled and a lantern swung, throwing light and then shadow. “Now,” the captain shouted, and the deck answered with a low shudder. I wrapped my arms around the trunk. It was heavier than it should be, as if it knew I was hesitating. If we kept it, we kept me; if we threw it, maybe we kept everyone.

I dragged it up, step by stubborn step, the crew parting to make a narrow path. Spray needled my face. At the rail I stopped. The sea opened, black and moving; the wind tore at my sleeve. I counted to three out loud, because silence hurt, and I let go. The trunk slipped, struck, and vanished. The ship lifted a fraction—almost grateful. I did not watch it sink. I picked up a coil of rope and went back to work.

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

Option A:

The deck is a slick sheet of grey, washed again and again by the sea. Salt spray stings my face; the wind bites at the ears, mean and busy. Under my boots the metal hums, a huge heart beating out of time. Waves slap the hull like flat hands, then rear, white and foaming, and come over us. Water runs in thin rivers between the bolts, then vanishes through the scuppers. The smell is raw: oil, rope, rust.

Meanwhile, ropes twist into snakes along the rail, slick and stubborn. A loose chain rattles — an angry rattle — marking each lurch. Crates are strapped in; they creak as the ship noses up and drops. A bell rings once in the roar, and the mast complains with a slow groan. The lights blink, not steady, while the sky presses low, the colour of wet slate.

Men in orange jackets move carefully, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed; they cling to the line. They shout, but the wind steals words; only the shape of them remains. One reaches for the rail, hesitates, then goes, foot by foot, to the winch. For a moment everything hangs — ship, horizon, breath — then it crashes down. The ship keeps going, stubborn as a bull in a storm.

Option B:

Dawn. A pale coin lifting at the rim of the world; the deck glittered with salt and our breath hung like smoke. The ocean moved under us, slow and heavy, like a tired animal that still had claws.

For three weeks we had followed the thin red route across the charts, eating from dented tins and drying socks on the warm engine casing. The engine beat a dull heart; the rails creaked; gulls had stopped days ago. We carried crates of chilled medicine to an island clinic; the captain said it mattered more than anything.

Then the radio found us. A burst of panic: "Mayday... coordinates... engine gone, two aboard." The voice was thin and far away, shredded by wind. South-east, not far but off the plan. I was on watch, the captain finally asleep down in his narrow cabin. He had told me, keep course, keep time.

The barometer had dropped and a bruise of cloud crawled up from the west. If we turned, we'd bleed fuel and maybe meet the storm early; if we didn't, a small boat would drift into nothing. I held the wheel and my hands left damp prints. Left or straight. Left or straight.

Responsibility sat on my shoulders like a wet coat. I could wake him, admit my mind was shaking, or I could choose. I tried to picture the clinic's faces, and I tried to hear the two strangers. The sea boomed under the bow, the ship muttered.

I breathed in the bitter brine, and pulled the wheel—

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

Option A:

The deck rises and falls like a chest breathing too fast. Spray lashes my face; the air tastes of cold salt and oil. Under my boots the metal plates are slick, a hollow drum when the bow slams—then a pause, a shiver, another slam. Railings rattle. Ropes snap tight as violin strings, then loosen. The sky is stained grey and the sea keeps coming, back and forth.

Around me the crew move in bursts, shoulders set, eyes narrowed. Orders crackle through the radio, snatched away by the wind. An orange life ring knocks the bulkhead in a nervous rhythm. Boots hammer the gangway; a loose chain clinks; somewhere a door bangs. Diesel breath rolls over the deck like breath from a giant, oily, and the ship answers with its own voice: a deep, tired groan.

Suddenly the horizon vanishes. A wall of water lifts us, higher, higher, as if the ocean swallows the vessel whole. Time stretches thin. Then it breaks. The wave collapses across the bow and charges down the deck, knives of foam cutting at my legs. We lurch; we stagger; we grip. Salt stings. Metal screams. When the surge drags back, it takes buckets, a glove, my breath. But the ship, stubborn, keeps going.

Option B:

For fourteen days the ocean repeated itself: blue, then steel, then black. Our old boat crawled like a beetle on a dinner plate. The rail was sticky with salt and the rope scuffed my palms. Diesel stung the back of my throat. We had started with jokes; now the engine coughed and the gulls followed, patient as shadows.

At noon the captain slipped on oil and hit the deck, out cold. He didn’t wake, and the men looked at me because I had the map. I was sixteen. The tank showed barely a hand’s worth of water. Two ways on the chart, seperate as roads: west to Haven Bay—closer, safe; east to Starling Key, five days, where a clinic waited for our medicine. The radio hissed, then died. Clouds piled up like bruises, the horizon was a hard line. Who was I to choose? The compass quivered; the needle looked nervous.

Choose.

Two paths, two prices. If we turned back, we might live, but the island might not. If we kept going, we could run dry and the sea doesn’t care. I touched the compass glass—cold, like ice—and drew my finger east. It felt wrong and right at the same time.

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

Option A:

The deck is wet and loud. The sea is on it, not just around it, and it runs under my boots and then away again, back and forth, back and forth. The metal floor shakes and bangs and I want to go inside but there is no inside here. Ropes slap the rail, the rails is cold and it shakes too. The wind shouts in my ears.

Boxes slide and knock. A bucket goes rolling, rolling, then stops hard by my foot. A man shouts; the waves was crashing over us and the lights blink.

It smells of salt and oil. The sky is grey, low. The ship goes up and down and my stomach does it too, I dont like it. The sea is like a big animal, angry, and the deck feels alive - it wont stay still.

Option B:

Ocean. A long road of water and wind. We was out here for weeks. The deck is wet and the boat thumps. The map is torn and the compass shakes like a scared bird.

We have to choose now. Go back, or go on. Fuel low. Food nearly gone. A black wall of storm ahead, rocks behind. My brother says keep going we promised. The radio crackles and says turn back.

I look at the crates. Medicine for a far town. If we throw them the boat will rise, we live. If we keep them we could sink. The sea hits us like a fist and the wind shouts. I dont want to fail, I dont want to drown.

I think of Mum, I think of faces we dont even know. My mouth is dry. Do I drop the cargo, or keep it and risk all, or turn back to nothing?

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

Option A:

The deck is big and wet. The waves come fast. They crash over the side and smash on my boots, cold. The ship go up and down, up and down, it makes my belly turn. Ropes slide like snakes and the rail rattles and the bell bangs. The wind is shouting in my ear. I can smell salt and oil and sick. My hands grab the metal and it is slippery, it bites. Water runs everywhere, like the deck is breathing. I think of home for a second. A man yells but I cant hear. The sea is angry, it hits again and again and it wont stop

Option B:

Night on the ship was long. The sea was black and cold. Ropes creak and the wind push us. I look at the map and the compass, the light small like a candle. We was far from home and food was low. I had to choose. Turn back or keep going, I dont know, I feel sick. If we turn the storm might catch us, if we go on we might not make it. A apple rolled on the deck. My brother sleep and he trust me. I whisper now or never and I put my hand on the wheel.