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 In which season did Connie and Clifford come home to Wragby?: Autumn – 1 mark
• 1.2 What type of accommodation is Miss Chatterley living in?: A little flat – 1 mark
• 1.3 What had Miss Chatterley done?: had departed – 1 mark
• 1.4 Where was Miss Chatterley living?: in a little flat in London – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 Wragby was a long low old house in brown stone, begun about the middle of the eighteenth century, and added on to, till it was a warren of a place without much distinction. It stood on an eminence in a rather

11 fine old park of oak trees, but alas, one could see in the near distance the chimney of Tevershall pit, with its clouds of steam and smoke, and on the damp, hazy distance of the

How does the writer use language to present Wragby and the area around 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: A Level 4 response would analyse how cumulative, multi-clausal syntax mirrors Wragby’s piecemeal growth—begun and added on to, till it was a warren of a place—and how the asyndetic tricolon long low old, the drab brown stone, and the evaluative without much distinction construct a rambling, undistinguished house, before a tonal pivot (but alas) and sharp juxtaposition set the hedged pastoral (stood on an eminence, rather fine old park) against industrial blight: the chimney of Tevershall pit and sibilant clouds of steam and smoke dissolving into a damp, hazy distance to suggest encroachment and suffocating gloom.

The writer presents Wragby as timeworn and sprawling through compressed description and cumulative syntax. The tricolon and alliteration in “long low old” flatten the house, while “brown stone” connotes drab solidity. The multi-clausal opening, “begun… and added on to, till…”, mimics piecemeal growth and culminates in the metaphor “a warren of a place”, animalising the house and suggesting cramped confusion, undercut by the litotes “without much distinction.”

Furthermore, the setting is initially dignified: “It stood on an eminence” personifies the house and, with the elevated lexis “eminence”, implies status; yet the hedging modifier “rather” in “rather fine old park of oak trees” tempers praise. The interjection “but alas,” signals a tonal pivot, and the impersonal “one could see” invites any viewer to share the disappointment as industry intrudes: “the chimney of Tevershall pit” acts as synecdoche for the mine and its blight.

Additionally, the sibilance in “steam and smoke” and the metaphor “clouds” enlarge the pollution until it seems to colonise the sky, a sinister echo of natural weather. Sensory adjectives in “damp, hazy distance” create a muffled atmosphere—pathetic fallacy that renders the landscape visually dulled. Structurally, the long, accumulating sentence strings vistas from “near distance” to “distance”, implying that the stain stretches from foreground to horizon. Therefore, language constructs Wragby as an undistinguished relic perched above a compromised pastoral, its very height exposing the encroaching ugliness.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain how piled adjectives like long low old house and the metaphor a warren of a place present Wragby as aged and rambling without much distinction, while contrasting the fine old park with the industrial chimney of Tevershall pit and clouds of steam and smoke to show natural beauty spoiled by industry. It would also note the emotive aside but alas, the gloomy sensory image of the damp, hazy distance, and how the long, cumulative first sentence (with added on to) mirrors the house’s cluttered growth.

The writer uses descriptive adjectives and listing to present Wragby as old and unimpressive. The triplet “long low old,” with alliteration, emphasises its low, squat profile and age, while “brown stone” uses colour imagery to suggest dull solidity. The metaphor “a warren of a place” implies a cramped, maze-like house cobbled together over time, and “without much distinction” undercuts any grandeur.

Moreover, the noun “eminence” raises Wragby above its surroundings, and “a rather fine old park of oak trees” employs positive lexis; “oak” connotes tradition and endurance, though the adverb “rather” softens the praise.

Furthermore, the interjection “but alas” signals a tonal shift and regret as the view is marred by “the chimney of Tevershall pit.” The juxtaposition of the “fine old park” with “clouds of steam and smoke” pits nature against industry; the sibilance in “steam and smoke” suggests creeping pollution.

Additionally, the atmospheric adjectives “damp, hazy” act as pathetic fallacy, blurring the distance to imply a sullied landscape. The long, cumulative sentence mirrors Wragby’s piecemeal growth and slows the pace, reinforcing a sense of weight and wear in both house and surrounding area.

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 a list of adjectives like "long low old" and the metaphor "a warren of a place" to show Wragby as plain and "without much distinction", while the contrast signalled by "but alas" shifts from a "fine old park" to bleak industrial images such as the "chimney of Tevershall pit" with "clouds of steam and smoke" and a "damp, hazy" distance, making the surroundings seem gloomy and polluted.

The writer uses adjectives and a metaphor to present Wragby as old and muddled. The phrase “long low old house” piles up adjectives to show age and dullness, while calling it “a warren of a place” makes it seem cramped and confusing, “without much distinction.” Moreover, contrast is used to show the area: it stands “on an eminence in a rather fine old park of oak trees,” but the interjection “alas” brings in the ugly “chimney of Tevershall pit” and its “clouds of steam and smoke.” The alliteration of “s” in “steam and smoke” suggests a hissing, industrial air. Additionally, the long, complex sentence lists lots of details, showing how it has been “added on to,” and the adjectives “damp, hazy” make the distance feel gloomy. Overall, language presents Wragby as plain and sprawling, and the surroundings as spoiled by industry.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses adjectives like "long low old" and "brown stone" to make Wragby seem plain, and the phrase "warren of a place" shows it is confusing. Negative words and images such as "alas," "clouds of steam and smoke" and "damp, hazy" make the area feel gloomy and polluted.

The writer uses adjectives to present Wragby as "long low old" and "brown stone". This makes it seem plain and old. Moreover, the metaphor "a warren of a place" suggests it is cramped and confusing. Furthermore, the noun "eminence" and the phrase "fine old park of oak trees" show the area as high and natural. Additionally, the emotive word "alas" and "the chimney of Tevershall pit" with "steam and smoke" make it feel industrial and not nice, while "damp, hazy" makes the distance seem dull. Finally, the long sentence lists details.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Triplet of adjectives and heavy o/l sounds compress the house into a squat, ageing presence, downplaying grandeur (long low old).
• Concrete material and time detail anchor it in earthy, dated solidity rather than elegance (brown stone).
• Cumulative syntax of growth suggests piecemeal accretion and untidy sprawl (added on to).
• Metaphor characterises the layout as cramped and confusing, undermining status (warren of a place).
• Explicit evaluative phrase dismisses any uniqueness, setting a critical tone (without much distinction).
• Hedged praise for the natural setting implies subdued, old-fashioned beauty (rather fine old park).
• Elevated vantage and layered distances widen the view yet stress encroachment and obscurity (near distance).
• Discourse marker and interjection signal a sharp tonal turn to regret at encroaching industry (but alas).
• Naming the pit and its emissions foregrounds industrial intrusion and pollution in the view (chimney of Tevershall pit).
• Sibilant, weather-like imagery and adjectives of obscurity make the air feel heavy and blurred (clouds of steam and smoke).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would track how immersion deepens through structural zoom and accumulation: the narrative moves from the panoramic opener (Wragby was a long low old house in brown stone) into layered, list-like sensory detail—aural (rattle-rattle), olfactory (the stench of this sulphureous combustion of the earth's excrement), visual (black manna from skies of doom)—and temporal sequencing (At first ... Then she got used to them) to embed us in Connie’s adaptation. It would also analyse the shift to social relations, showing how refrain and repetition create a communal texture: the anaphoric negatives (no welcome home, not even a single flower), the motif (Gulf impassable), and voiced barriers (You leave me alone!, You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine!) pattern the whole and deepen the sense of immersion in a divided community.

One way in which the writer structures the opening to immerse the reader is by temporal anchoring and a panoramic spatial zoom. The clear exposition “in the autumn of 1920” fixes context before focus widens from “Wragby… a long low old house” to what “one could see” beyond: the pit and the “raw straggle” of the village. A colon triggers accumulative listing—“houses, rows of wretched… sharp angles… blank dreariness”—whose syntactic sprawl slows the pace and saturates the scene.

In addition, immersion deepens through layered sensory focus and controlled pace. The narrative shifts from the visual panorama to sound—“rattle-rattle… puff… clink-clink”—then to smell: “the stench of this sulphureous combustion.” Anaphoric openings (“And when… And even…”) build accumulation, mirroring smuts that “settled persistently.” A sudden authorial aside—“Well, there it was… You couldn’t kick it away. It just went on”—breaks into the long sentences, varying rhythm and making the atmosphere feel inescapable. Temporal sequencing—“At first… Then… in the morning”—turns description into lived duration.

A further structural feature is the controlled shift from environment to social relations, with Connie’s focalisation. We move to attitudes—“Clifford professed… Connie wondered”—before an analepsis, “There had been no welcome home,” replays their arrival to expose the village’s stance. Refrain and emphatic repetition—“no communication… none”; “Gulf impassable”—and pseudo-direct speech, “You stick to your side… You leave me alone!”, ventriloquise a communal voice. The motif “At first… Then…” returns (“At first Connie suffered… Then she hardened”), binding the passage and showing the place imprinting character over time.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response clearly explains structural progression: from an establishing overview to layered sensory listing—sounds like "rattle-rattle", "clink-clink", smells of "sulphur, iron, coal"—and time shifts from "at night" to "And in the morning it rained", making the world feel continuous and oppressive. It also notes shifts and repetition, such as "At first ... Then she got used to them" and the refrain "Gulf impassable" with "You leave me alone!", to show mood moving from horrified fascination to resigned division, deepening immersion.

One way the writer structures immersion is by opening with clear exposition and widening focus. We begin with time and place—“autumn of 1920,” “Wragby”—then the lens expands from the “long low old house” to the “fine old park” and out to the “chimney of Tevershall pit.” This shift in focus, and the stark contrast between park and pit, juxtaposes beauty and “utter hopeless ugliness,” pulling the reader into a realised landscape.

In addition, immersion deepens through cumulative sensory listing that slows the pace. We hear “rattle-rattle,” “clink-clink,” and the “hoarse little whistle,” we smell “sulphureous combustion,” and we see night “red blotches.” Temporal markers—“At first… Then… And in the morning”—map time, so we experience Connie’s progression from horror to habit, which embeds us inside the rhythm of the place.

A further structural feature is a temporal shift to an arrival scene (“There had been no welcome home”), before broadening to the social divide. The narrative moves from the “dank ride” to repeated summary statements—“Gulf impassable”—and embedded exclamations, “You leave me alone!” This repetition acts like a refrain, consolidating mood. Throughout, a sustained perspective through Connie (“she wondered,” “she hardened herself”) guides response, keeping us immersed in place and community.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts by placing us in time and setting with "came home to Wragby in the autumn of 1920", then widens and deepens immersion through layered description and sensory lists—from the grim surroundings "the raw straggle of Tevershall village" to sounds "rattle-rattle", "clink-clink" and smells "sulphur, iron, coal, or acid"—so we can picture and feel the place. The focus then shifts to Connie’s response ("Then she got used to them") and the community’s coldness ("No caps were touched"), using repetition like "Gulf impassable" and the refrain "You leave me alone!" to emphasise isolation and keep the reader inside this bleak world.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create immersion is by starting with a clear beginning and then expanding the setting. It starts, “Connie and Clifford came home”, then the focus widens from house to park, pit and village. This change of focus helps the reader picture the place and mood.

In addition, the writer moves from what Connie sees to what she hears and smells. The sounds, “rattle-rattle… clink-clink”, and smells of “sulphur, iron, coal” use sensory detail. This shift makes us feel surrounded by Wragby.

A further structural feature is temporal reference and repetition. “At first… Then she got used to them” shows change. Repeating “Gulf impassable” and “You leave me alone!” emphasises division. By the end, the focus shifts onto people like the rector, immersing us in the community as well as the setting.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer begins by setting the scene as Connie and Clifford came home to Wragby, then builds immersion with bleak detail like “wretched, small, begrimed, brick houses”. The focus moves through senses (“rattle-rattle”, “stench”) to social distance at the end with “no welcome home” and repeated “Gulf impassable”, making it feel gloomy and cut off.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create immersion is by starting with time and place (“autumn of 1920”) and a clear description of Wragby and the pit. This sets the scene and puts the reader there.

In addition, the focus moves through senses: first sight, then sounds and smells (“rattle-rattle”, “stench”). Short sentences like “So it had to burn.” make it feel immediate.

A further structural feature is repetition and change over time. The writer uses “At first… Then…” and repeats “Gulf impassable” to show the divide, which keeps us inside Connie’s experience.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Immediate anchoring in time and return situates readers in a specific moment, inviting entry into place and circumstance (came home to Wragby).
• Structured zoom from house to park to industrial horizon juxtaposes heritage with intrusion, immersing us in layered spaces (chimney of Tevershall pit).
• Cumulative listing of the village’s features builds density and claustrophobia, deepening immersion through relentless detail (wretched, small, begrimed, brick houses).
• Shift from visual panorama to auditory texture layers senses so the environment feels inescapably present (rattle-rattle).
• Short, declarative repetitions impose inevitability, pulling us into a grinding, continuous rhythm (So it had to burn).
• Perspective narrows into Connie’s interior response, charting a move from horror to acclimatisation that draws us inside her experience (Then she got used to them).
• Temporal markers extend the scene across day–night cycles, sustaining immersive gloom through routine change (And in the morning it rained).
• A guided approach sequence maps space step-by-step, placing the reader physically on the route to the house (dark, damp drive).
• Structural pivot from landscape to social relations widens immersion into the community’s emotional climate (Gulf impassable).
• The ending’s depersonalised label fixes a cold, static endpoint, leaving us embedded in a mechanised social order (automatic preaching and praying concern).

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, the arrival at Wragby Hall is disappointing and unwelcoming. The writer suggests the lack of celebration shows the gulf between the owners and the workers is now impossible to cross.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the gulf between the owners and the workers
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey the unwelcoming arrival
• 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 argue that the writer deliberately frames the arrival as bleak and uncelebratory through cumulative negation and oppressive imagery: no welcome home... no festivities... not even a single flower, the dark, damp drive through gloomy trees, and the staff hovering, like unsure tenants. It would then analyse how the repeated absolutes Gulf impassable, no communication, and the hostile refrain You leave me alone! assert an unbridgeable divide, while the nuanced concession sympathised... in the abstract merely gestures toward empathy that cannot cross the breach indescribable.

To a great extent, I agree that the arrival at Wragby Hall is disappointing and unwelcoming, and that the absence of celebration foregrounds a gulf that the writer renders virtually impossible to bridge. From the outset, Lawrence constructs a bleak industrial soundscape and stench that pre-emptively drain any festivity: the “rattle-rattle” and “hoarse little whistle” create a harsh auditory backdrop, while the olfactory metaphor of “the earth’s excrement” establishes disgust. Even supposed emblems of joy are tainted: “on the Christmas roses the smuts settled… like black manna from skies of doom.” This oxymoronic simile undercuts celebration at its root, signalling that welcome here is systematically polluted.

The tone hardens into fatalism through colloquial interjections and rhetorical questions: “Well, there it was: fated… why kick? You couldn’t kick it away.” This resigned voice, coupled with the oppressive visual of a “low dark ceiling of cloud” and furnaces that glow “like burns that give pain,” uses pathetic fallacy to make the place itself repellent. Through focalisation on Connie—“she felt she was living underground”—the writer shows how the environment entombs feeling, so by the time of arrival, disappointment seems inevitable.

The arrival scene crystallises that lack of welcome through cumulative negation and anaphora: “no festivities, no deputation, not even a single flower.” The incremental build to “not even” intensifies the sense of social vacuum. The journey itself is rendered as a burial—“a dank ride… up a dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees”—with the verb “burrowing” connoting submergence, not entrance. Inside, hierarchy is unsettled rather than hospitable: the housekeeper and her husband “hovering, like unsure tenants… ready to stammer a welcome” suggests role inversion and embarrassment, not warmth.

Lawrence then anatomises the class gulf via withheld rituals of deference: “No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed.” The parallelism and repetition of “no” perform social refusal. Minimal gestures—“stared,” “nodded awkwardly”—and the qualifier “that was all” close the door on intimacy. The structural refrain “Gulf impassable” and the species metaphor—“they… belonged to another species”—elevate difference to biological inevitability. Direct-speech maxims—“You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine!” and “You leave me alone!”—function as a communal creed. Even potential bridges are mechanised into irrelevance: the rector is “reduced… to a nonentity,” an “automatic preaching and praying concern,” a mechanistic metaphor that echoes the pit’s engines and shows how roles eclipse personhood.

There is a slight nuance: “the village sympathised… in the abstract,” hinting at distant empathy. Yet “in the flesh” the barrier holds. Overall, the writer’s industrial imagery, cumulative negation, and insistent refrain construct an arrival stripped of celebration and a class divide presented as, in practice, impossible to cross.

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 the unwelcoming arrival through a list of negatives like "no welcome home", "no festivities", "not even a single flower" and bleak images such as "dank ride" through "gloomy trees". It would also identify the divide as effectively unbridgeable via emphatic repetition—"Gulf impassable", "no communication ... none", and the exclusionary "You stick to your side, I'll stick to mine!"—while noting slight nuance in "sympathised with Clifford and Connie in the abstract".

I largely agree. The arrival is deliberately drained of warmth, and the lack of ceremony reinforces a divide the narrator calls a ‘gulf impassable’, though the hint that the village ‘sympathised… in the abstract’ suggests a thwarted common humanity.

From the outset, the setting feels hostile. The ‘dismal rooms’ and harsh sound imagery—‘rattle-rattle’, ‘clink-clink’, the ‘hoarse little whistle’—create a grating soundscape. The pit’s stench as ‘the earth’s excrement’ and smuts ‘like black manna from skies of doom’ make the place feel toxic. The exclamation ‘Well, there it was: fated…’ injects fatalism, prefiguring barriers you ‘couldn’t kick it away’.

When they arrive, the writer foregrounds absence through anaphora and listing: ‘no welcome home… no festivities, no deputation, not even a single flower.’ The piling up of negatives builds disappointment, and the anticlimax of ‘a single flower’ shows how minimal any kindness would have been. A damp, dark semantic field—‘dank ride’, ‘dark, damp drive’, ‘gloomy trees’, ‘grey damp sheep’—amplifies the unwelcoming mood, while the housekeeper and her husband ‘hovering, like unsure tenants’ suggests awkwardness, not celebration.

Structurally, the focus widens from driveway to community. Short declaratives—‘There was no communication… none’—and repetition of ‘No caps… no curtseys…’ stress social paralysis. The refrain ‘Gulf impassable’ and the direct speech, ‘You stick to your side, I’ll stick to mine!’, make the separation feel absolute. Yet the concession that the village ‘sympathised… in the abstract’ complicates the idea of impossibility; in practice—‘in the flesh’—the cry is ‘You leave me alone!’, even reducing the rector to a ‘nonentity’, an ‘automatic… concern’.

Overall, I largely agree: bleak sensory imagery, repeated negatives and the ‘gulf’ metaphor make the arrival unwelcoming and the divide feel unbridgeable, though ‘sympathised… in the abstract’ hints the barrier is socially enforced.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree that the arrival is disappointing and unwelcoming, citing simple evidence like "no welcome home", "no communication", the villagers "merely stared", and the clear assertion "Gulf impassable". It would make basic method points, for example how gloomy imagery like "dark, damp drive" and the hostile refrain "You leave me alone!" create a cold atmosphere and show separation.

I mostly agree with the statement. The arrival at Wragby Hall feels disappointing and unwelcoming, and the lack of celebration shows a deep gap between owners and workers that seems fixed.

First, the writer creates a bleak mood through setting and sensory language. From the “dismal rooms” Connie hears the “rattle-rattle” and “clink-clink,” onomatopoeia that makes the place sound harsh. The smell is a “stench,” and even the “Christmas roses” are stained with smuts “like black manna from skies of doom.” This simile turns a hopeful image into something grim, building a depressing tone.

When they actually arrive, the absence of welcome is clear. The list “no welcome home… no festivities… not even a single flower” shows the lack of celebration. Instead there is “a dank ride… up a dark, damp drive,” and “gloomy trees” and “grey damp sheep.” The repetition of dark/damp imagery makes the arrival feel cold. The housekeeper and her husband “hovering, like unsure tenants… ready to stammer a welcome” suggests awkwardness rather than joy.

The gulf is emphasised by repetition and listing: “no communication… none,” “no caps… no curtseys.” People “merely stared” or “nodded awkwardly.” The phrase “Gulf impassable” is repeated, and the direct line “You leave me alone!” on “either side” shows a hard barrier.

However, there are small signs of humanity: “the tradesmen lifted their caps,” and the village “sympathised… in the abstract.” Even so, the contrast “in the flesh it was—You leave me alone!” makes crossing the divide feel impossible.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the unwelcoming arrival and lack of celebration strongly present a gulf that the writer suggests cannot be crossed.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because the arrival is clearly unwelcoming with no welcome home and no festivities, and even No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed. The writer also says Gulf impassable, which shows the gulf between owners and workers is impossible to cross.

I mostly agree with the statement. The arrival at Wragby Hall feels disappointing and unwelcoming. The writer uses negative adjectives and a list to show there is no celebration: ‘no welcome home… no festivities… not even a single flower.’ The repeated ‘no’ makes it feel empty. The setting also sounds cold and dull: ‘a dank ride… up a dark, damp drive, burrowing through gloomy trees.’ This description gives a gloomy mood, and the house is a ‘dark brown façade,’ which seems hard and unfriendly. Even the people there are awkward: the housekeeper and her husband ‘hovering, like unsure tenants,’ a simile showing no warmth.

I also think the gulf between owners and workers seems impossible to cross. Ordinary signs of respect are missing: ‘No caps were touched, no curtseys bobbed.’ The colliers ‘merely stared’ and tradesmen ‘nodded awkwardly,’ showing distance. The writer repeats ‘Gulf impassable… breach indescribable,’ which emphasises a barrier. The quoted line ‘You leave me alone!’ and calling them ‘another species’ suggests there is no real connection.

Overall, I agree the arrival is unwelcoming, and the lack of celebration comes from a deep divide. The writer’s use of listing, gloomy adjectives, a simile, and repetition shows the gap is very hard, maybe impossible, to cross.

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:

• Tricolon of negation intensifies the anticlimax of the homecoming, strongly supporting the claim that the arrival is uncelebrated and disappointing: not even a single flower
• Pathetic fallacy and damp, grey imagery make the approach feel actively hostile, reinforcing the unwelcoming tone: dark, damp drive
• Hesitant domestic reception (simile/personification) suggests insecurity rather than warmth, deepening the sense of a cold welcome: stammer a welcome
• Emphatic absolute with repetition frames the social divide as total and unbridgeable, aligning with “gulf impossible to cross”: no communication
• Withheld social rituals signify refusal of deference and connection, signalling a deliberate lack of celebration: No caps were touched
• Token, awkward civility from tradesmen slightly tempers the claim, yet the minimal gesture confirms distance rather than welcome: that was all
• Insistent refrain hammers home the permanence of the class divide, making the gulf feel structural, not situational: Gulf impassable
• Dramatized mutual slogan shows entrenched positions on both sides, foreclosing any festive bridge-making: You stick to your side
• Antithesis between ideas and behaviour concedes abstract sympathy but proves practical separation, supporting the “impossible to cross” view: in the abstract
• Dehumanising metaphor for the rector shows even institutions can’t mediate the gap, deepening the impression of an uncrossable divide: automatic preaching and praying concern

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A local food festival is compiling a digital anthology and invites short creative pieces from students.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe an artisan chocolate workshop from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a treasured family recipe.

(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 workshop hums with a low, even heat; light spills across the veined marble like cream, catching motes of cocoa that drift, unhurried, through the sugared air. Copper pans hang like suns along the wall, dull-gold and dignified; on the benches, scales, thermometers and palette knives lie in orderly truce. It smells of roasted beans and patience: a deep, round aroma, faintly smoky, threaded with vanilla and the ghost of orange peel.

Hands—calm, unjewelled, cocoa-flecked—tilt the bowl. A ribbon descends, lustrous and obedient, pooling in the mould with a hush. While the thermometer hovers at precisely thirty-one degrees, the chocolatier waits; heat is measured here by heartbeat and habit as much as by digits. Tempering is an incantation: heat, cool, seed, stir; test, wait, trust. The chocolate is coaxed rather than commanded, persuaded along its curve until it gleams with that elusive, glassy certainty. Smooth as silk, almost, and yet with a life of its own.

Concurrently, a constellation of polycarbonate moulds waits in formation—domes, squares, slender bars—transparent and severe. The spatula scrapes and folds the dark lake back on itself; tap, tap, tap goes the edge against the bench to chase away stray bubbles. In the corner, a small pot of caramel broods over a low flame, the colour of burnt sugar and late evening; beside it, cream kisses chocolate into ganache, coaxing a gamut of flavours from citrus-peel brightness to hazelnut’s soft, buttery murmur. Jars are labelled with tidy printing: Sumatra seventy-two percent, Tahitian vanilla, pink peppercorn, sea salt. Each is a quiet promise.

There is music in this restraint—the soft rasp of a knife on marble, the sibilant whisper of parchment, the percussive crack as a test shard snaps cleanly in two. Outside, a lorry sighs past; inside, time thickens and bends around the cooling curve. Precision matters: forty-five down to twenty-seven, then back up, just, to thirty-one; stable crystals, a satin sheen, a snap you can hear and almost taste. The process is fiendishly exacting and gently forgiving all at once, a paradox the hands understand before the head does.

Now the moulds are filled and capped, their seams tidied with a swift, economical flourish. A breath of cocoa butter mists a pattern—feathered green, comet-gold—across the set shells; a flake of salt, an almond shard, a candied violet lands, deliberate, like punctuation. Then the release: one turn, a tap and a private little miracle as chocolates fall away, immaculate, onto the papered tray. They shine like piano lacquer; they smell like winter evenings and old storybooks.

At last, each piece is nested in tissue, gathered into a box that shuts with a soft, expensive click. Someone, somewhere, will bite and hear that small, polite crack before the centre loosens—warm, bright, inevitable. Discipline disguised as indulgence; patience you can taste.

Option B:

Sunday. The time of slow heat; windows pearled with condensation, sunlight laying a thin ribbon of gold across the flour-dusted worktop. The house seemed to hold its breath, as though the walls themselves understood that something fragile and fragrant was about to be summoned.

As cumin seeds rattled in the cold pan, waiting for fire, Maya slid the dented biscuit tin from the top shelf. She felt as tentative as a novice despite the hours she had spent on that very stool as a child, legs swinging, chin in palms, counting each pop and hiss as if they were stars. The tin breathed out a ghost of cinnamon when she opened it; inside, beneath elastics and recipes for cakes she never baked, lay the card—tea-brown, freckled with oil, its edges frilled like lace.

Daal, her grandmother’s handwriting announced, its loops extravagant in faded ink. Underneath: lentils, water, turmeric, salt. Then the treacherous measurements—pinch, handful, till it smells right—like riddles only time could solve. Maya traced the letters with a fingertip. How do you measure a memory? In teaspoons? In the quiet between sizzles? In the way someone says your name without looking up.

She lined the ingredients like a procession on the counter: red lentils like tiny suns; ginger, knuckled and earthy; garlic with its paper skin; a jar of mustard seeds that chimed when tipped; ghee, gilt and indulgent. Her grandmother had called this alchemy, and perhaps that was indulgent too, but as the flame found the pan and the cumin began its soft staccato, the room filled with a smell that reached right into her ribs. The past didn’t arrive as a photograph; it arrived as steam.

“Let the onions sweat until they sing,” her grandmother used to say, voice seasoned with patience. Maya tipped them in; they slumped and whispered, turning translucent, the wooden spoon knocking the pot like a quiet metronome. Outside, a neighbour’s radio played a song she almost recognised. Inside, the clock wrote pale seconds in the corner—tick, tick, tick—while the lentils soaked, swelling with a slow, obedient inevitability.

She shook turmeric into the water; it plumed and then dissolved, a sunburst subsiding into gold. The daal would be simple, everyone said—home is where the heart is—yet her heart startled at every hiss, sure that one wrong tilt would break the spell. Her grandmother’s notes were sparse because her hands had been lavish; measurements lived in her palms, in the curved scoop of her nails, in the instinct that comes from repetition and love.

Tempering came last—the tarka, the part that felt like lightning in a ladle. Ghee—melted. Garlic—slivered. Mustard seeds—impatient. The pan brightened its voice when the seeds began to dance, a jubilant constellation; she threw in coriander and the room became green, lively, irrepressible. Carefully, ceremonially, she poured the crackling perfume into the waiting pot. The surface rippled, accepted, transformed.

Salt.

She tasted. Heat, then velvet. Something almost right. Almost.

Perhaps it was the missing squeeze of lemon, or the ten quiet seconds her grandmother always gave between stirring and serving. Perhaps it was simply that certain flavours arrive later—on the second spoon, the third. Maya lifted the ladle again, listening past the simmering to another kitchen years ago, to a spoon tapped twice on a rim, to laughter. The pot gave a soft, satisfied murmur, as if about to say her name.

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

Option A:

The room is warm with a disciplined warmth, a careful climate you can feel on your eyelashes. Lamps throw precise circles of light onto stainless-steel benches; every surface gleams as if rehearsed. The air is saturated with cocoa — deep, earthy, almost floral — and a faint sugar-sweetness that clings to your tongue. From the corner, a tempering machine hums contentedly, a low purr beneath the staccato of spatulas against marble.

Hands — steady, gloved, dusted with a fine galaxy of cocoa — guide a ribbon of liquid chocolate into delicate moulds. It pours in one silken sheet and then divides, obedient to the edges: hearts, leaves, faceted domes that will catch the light. The chocolatier watches the thermometer with priestly attention (30°C, not a breath more for milk), and draws the mass back and forth, back and forth, back and forth across the cool stone until the shine becomes a calm, glassy gloss. Temper is not just heat; it is a mood coaxed into the cocoa butter crystals, a persuasion.

There is music here, though no radio plays. Moulds are tapped to chase bubbles to the surface — a soft rain of sound — and trays shiver as they are laid to rest. A copper pan releases a caramel sigh; vanilla seeds freckle cream; the bitter nibble of cacao nibs adds a dry rattle to the orchestra. An apprentice pipes ganache with wary concentration, a bead of anxiety at her temple; the master’s nod is small but sufficient.

On a rack, shells set into satin firmness: their future is already imagined. Some will be lacquered with a whisper of gold leaf; some dressed in cocoa powder, a constellation of dusk; others veined with paler chocolate until the surface resembles polished marble. Fillings wait in patient rows: salted caramel, espresso truffle, hazelnut praline; a rosemary-scented experiment that shouldn’t work, but somehow does. Labels are handwritten — italic, meticulous — and ribbons are measured to the centimetre because presentation is a promise.

Outside, the street is ordinary. Inside, time thickens, stirred more slowly, as if the clocks have been folded into the mixture. What is this craft but careful attention made edible? The finished pieces leave the moulds with a neat, decisive “snap,” revealing mirror-bright facets that hold a room’s light and a day’s labour. They cool, they are boxed, and yet they seem warm with intention — stories tempered into sweetness, discipline disguised as delight.

Option B:

Rain stitched the window with fine silver thread; the kitchen breathed a warm fog of soap and old sugar. In my hands the recipe card—foxed, freckled with grease—felt like a relic. Nana’s Honey Cake, her tilted blue script announced, looping and sure. The paper carried a patina of spills; when I tipped it, flour lifted like a quiet storm. Somewhere a memory pressed its knuckle against a door I hadn’t opened.

Dad gave me the shoebox after the service—the kind that kept sensible shoes and now kept the un-sensible: a bundle of index cards; a blunt pencil; two cinnamon sticks (why?). “Keep it safe,” he’d said, voice careful, as though the air might bruise. The instructions were precise and vague at once: scald milk a little; add honey slowly; a good pinch of salt; bake until golden. How golden? How good? How much of a little is a little?

I set out the ingredients like a ceremony: flour in a hill; eggs shining; the jar of honey holding a tired sun. The pan—heavy, forgiving—took the milk and warmed it until it trembled. Yeast went in with a shy fizz; it bloomed, then settled, like someone deciding to stay. I whisked, stirred, scraped the bowl until the sides were clean, the wooden spoon tap-tapping as if knocking on an old door. The air thickened with something almost sweet.

“Rest until risen,” the card commanded, as though dough obeyed clocks. I covered the bowl with a tea towel patterned in blue anchors—Nana’s—and waited. Time went strange; the second hand meandered. How do you measure a memory? By minutes, or by the way your hands move without thinking, copying hands you watched years ago? I watched the surface quiver, then smooth, then quiver again. Almost. What if it stayed flat and sullen and proved I had remembered her wrong?

I rubbed flour on my palms (her trick, “so it won’t stick to your life,” she used to tease) and thought about how recipes are more than instructions. They are a palimpsest: notes layered over breath, over birthdays, over ordinary Tuesdays. Each brown blot a reminder; each crease, a soft argument about taste. When the dough finally rose, it did not leap; it remembered. I eased it into the hot mouth of the oven. The smell arrived cautiously, then with confidence—honey loosening, cinnamon waking. If I get this right, the house might recognise us.

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

Option A:

Heat hums in the workshop; a low murmur of motors and breath. Milk-pale light slides over copper pans. The marble bench is an altar, chalk white and cool, where a gloss of melted chocolate creeps, calm as a tide. The air is dense with cocoa and vanilla—an almost breadlike warmth—pricked by orange peel and roasted hazelnut. On the side a sieve sits, a faint brown halo misting the surface.

A bowl is lifted, turned; the viscous ribbon falls in slow curtains. Under it a thermometer glints; numbers steady. Temper, the chocolatier mutters—temper and time. His palette knife skates on marble, folding the river back on itself: forward and back, until the surface learns to shine. Tap-tap-tap: he knocks a mould to free bubbles, a staccato drum that sets the room’s rhythm.

The moulds wait like tiny cathedrals—scalloped shells, crisp squares, hearts with quiet edges. A piping bag quivers; he draws filigree spirals that settle into silken pools. Ganache, dark as midnight, sits in a narrow pan, flecked with salt; it is spooned carefully. Shards of candied peel, gold leaf that trembles at the slightest exhale—these drift down as blessings. The smell sweetens—caramel, a faint metalic snap from the wire rack, something nutty that makes the tongue ache.

Meanwhile, at the far end, a tempering wheel turns like a slow planet, bringing up irridescent crescents on its lip. The apprentice wipes a drip with the edge of a gloved finger; he licks his lips instead, half-grinning. Speech is quiet, practical—names of beans, percentages, and the same reminder: be patient. How can cocoa and sugar and milk become this glossy certainty? It feels like a magic trick, though the trick is simply practice.

Later, the cooled shells release with a soft sigh, a neat row of domes mapped like buttons. They are boxed in kraft paper, tied with thin ribbon; the knot is small, exact. On the lid a logo presses—cacao pods and leaves. Outside the day continues; in here the hum persists, the bench glows faintly, and the scent clings to sleeves and stories, asking you to taste again, and again.

Option B:

Sunday. The day our kitchen remembered; cupboards creaked awake, and the oven ticked like a clock suddenly sure of itself. Even the air grew thick with anticipation, a shy sweetness hovering at the edge of my tongue.

On the table lay the recipe card, soft as fabric from years of folding. Butter freckles and tea-rings dotted the corners; the ink had paled, yet my grandmother’s script still leaned forward, eager to speak. Honey Cake, underlined twice. Not quite measurements, more like directions in her voice: a generous cup of flour; two good pinches of cinnamon; stir until it shines.

I tied on her apron — still faint with soap and clove — and set out bowls. Sugar hissed into metal, eggs cracked with small golden sighs. When I warmed the butter it pooled and glowed, and the kitchen lifted, nutty and bright, like a story retold the right way. She never weighed precisely; she weighed by weather and mood. ‘Listen,’ she’d say, tapping the rim, ‘it tells you when it’s ready.’ How do you measure a pinch of memory?

However, today I had the quiet house and the card, so I tried to be sensible. I sifted flour until it fell in pale drifts; I grated lemon; I coaxed a stubborn batter towards smoothness. Then a note in the margin snagged me: brown the butter, just to hazelnut. I watched the pan like a hawk. The line between golden and burnt felt thin; the smell rose sharp and high, and I yanked it off the heat. A flecking of brown floated there like constellations. Not perfect, but not ruined.

As I folded the warm butter through, the batter loosened; glossy, more willing. Concurrently, a small warmth loosened in my chest, as if my hands remembered what my head had misplaced. I slid the tin into the oven; the door shut with a faithful click, and the room felt fuller, almost populated. It was only cake, I told myself. Yet it wasn’t only cake. Somewhere within the ticking and the faint hum of heat, I could almost hear her answering my question.

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

Option A:

Morning light drifts through high windows, pooling on the steel benches and the old marble slab. The air is warm, not hot, and it smells of cocoa, of toasted beans and sugar. Machines hum softly; a tempering drum turns, steady as a heartbeat. On the marble, a river of chocolate moves, viscous and calm, gathering itself and folding back. It looks like silk set loose, like a small night made liquid. Steam curls up from a copper pan, it catches the light and hangs there.

Hands work without rushing. A ladle rises and pours; the flow threads into delicate moulds lined in perfect rows. Tap, tap, tap — tiny bubbles lift and burst, a bright, hollow sound. The chocolate sulks at the edges, reluctant, then it slides obediently into each corner. Fingers guide a palette knife across the surface, shaving away the extra with clean confidence. I watch the gloss change as if it is thinking. It deepens, it settles, it waits.

Around the bench are bowls of colours and scents: crushed pistachio, bitter nibs, orange peel, sea salt. Vanilla sticks lie like small wands. Someone stirs a pan of cream for ganache and the smell blooms; rich, almost floral. A thermometer blinks—31 degrees, nearly right. The rhythm repeats, backwards and forwards, scraping and gathering, scraping and gathering. The floor creaks. Laughter bursts, brief and low, then concentration returns like a tide.

Finished shells harden in their trays, a parade of domes and bars. Patterns appear—marbled swirls, a gold fleck that looks like starlight. The chocolatier flips the moulds and taps, and the room pauses. They drop out together, neat little silhouettes with proud shoulders. Is it craft or magic? Maybe both. Boxes wait, lined with tissue, ribbons slipping through fingers. The room exhales; the chocolate sets; and outside, the late sun glows on the window, keeping it's quiet promise.

Option B:

The card is as thin as a dried leaf, its corners softened by years of fingers; treacle spots map the way my grandmother moved through a kitchen. In the margin, a careful note: “more ginger if the day is cold.” This morning feels cold enough to bite. The window is pale, and the bowl waits, clean and expectant.

I hold the card like a photograph. Her handwriting loops and leans, stubborn about ounces and pinches, and I read it out loud as if it’s a spell. Six ounces of flour, four of dark sugar, a knob of butter. The cupboard breathes out spice when I open it; cinnamon sighs, ginger pricks the air, and the sugar looks like damp sand. My hands don’t look like hers, not yet.

“Don’t pack it down, love,” she would say, tapping the rim with the back of a spoon. “Let the flour fall.” I try to do it her way. The spoon feels heavy; the milk is warm; the treacle glows like a ribbon of amber that refuses to hurry. I stir and scrape, stir and breathe.

It has been six months since we lost her, and the house has been a bit too quiet. Everyone is coming at five—Mum, my uncle with the loud laugh, my sisters, trailing their own smaller lives—and they are expecting this loaf. It isn’t only food; it is a door back to something safe. What if it sinks?

Nan had rules: stir clockwise, then rest the batter. Knock the tin twice. I smooth the top with the flat of the knife and breathe in the sharp-sweet smell. The oven yawns open, hot and serious. I slide the tin inside and close the door like I’m keeping a secret.

Now I wait. I hope the recipe remembers me as much as I remember her.

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

Option A:

Warmth lifts from the tempered bowls and hangs under the lamps like a soft fog. Copper pans glow a tired orange; the marble bench keeps its cool hands on the room. Cocoa scents roll up—deep and bittersweet, almost smoky—and they sit on my tongue before I taste anything. At the centre, hands pour chocolate into delicate moulds; it moves like a slow river, glossy and obedient, almost alive.

First, the spatula spreads and gathers, spreads and gathers, back and forth. Tap, tap, tap: the mould is knocked to chase away bubbles. A silver thermometer blinks; numbers creep; someone nods. I hear the soft scrape of metal on stone, the whisper of paper cups, the sigh the mixture makes when it settles. Meanwhile, a piping bag writes pale lines over the dark chocolate, then swirls like wind in water. Patient work, careful work—the kind that asks for time.

Finally, boxes wait like small stages. Tissue paper rustles; ribbons are pulled straight; a gold stamp presses the maker’s name. On a tray, rows appear: shells, leaves, squares; a tiny city of gloss. A spoon lifts a cooled piece and it breaks with a modest snap. Sweet; salty; the faint, earthy echo of cocoa. Outside it might be grey and ordinary; inside, everything feels warm and quietly proud.

Option B:

Sunday. The kitchen held steam and stories; cinnamon curled in the air like ribbon. Light slid across the table, catching the old scar Grandad left, while the clock ticked too loud. Everything felt slow, like the house took a deep breath. This was the hour for our treasured recipe.

In the cupboard lived the notebook with flour crusting its corners. The pages were thin and spotted with grease, edges soft as autumn leaves. First page, a faded title: Honey Bread. The letters looped like my grandmother’s bracelets. She always said it was simple; it didn’t feel simple for me. I lined up the ingredients—flour, yeast, warm milk, a spoon of honey—and the big blue bowl with a hairline crack. My hands felt too big, too clumsy, but I wanted to do it right, for her, for everyone who had eaten this bread before me.

“First, you listen,” she used to say. “Dough talks if you let it.” So I stirred. The milk turned cloudy, the yeast bloomed like tiny fireworks. A pinch of salt: but how big is a pinch? The recipe never says. I tried anyway, moving the spoon clockwise because she always did, believing in that small magic. Knead until smooth, until it comes back to you. The room warmed; I could almost hear her humming. I wasn’t sure I was doing it right—my wrists ached, my palms dusted white—but the dough began to push back, soft and stubborn. I covered it and waited, listening.

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

Option A:

The workshop is warm and sweet. The smell of cocoa sits heavy in the air, it clings to clothes and hair. Light spills across a cool slab of marble where the chocolate is tempered. It moves like melted silk, dark and glossy, obedient and slow-moving. Copper pans hang above, dented and proud; the walls are pale and clean, a careful background to the shine.

Hands work steadily. First a careful pour, then a scrape with a metal spatula, then a tap-tap-tap to chase bubbles away. Moulds wait in neat rows; they gleam like little windows. The liquid slides into every corner and curve. You can hear the whisper of scraping, the soft clink of a bowl, the low hum of a fan cooling the trays: busy, but calm. Back and forth, back and forth, the maker moves, repeating the steps like a quiet dance.

Meanwhile, on the side, white chocolate swirls like clouds and a ribbon of caramel glows like amber. Labels lie ready, printed and neat. Finally, the tray is turned and the shells fall out with a small, bright knock - each one smooth, each one almost a mirror. How can something so simple look so careful? I breathe in again; the sweetness is everywhere.

Option B:

Sunday morning. The kitchen is warm, even before the oven wakes. Steam curls from the kettle; sunlight tests the window. I pull the dented green tin from the top shelf. Inside is a blue recipe card, soft at the edges. Nan’s writing loops and leans. This is the recipe. The one we pass down like a secret. It smells like cinnamon even now. When I hold it, I hear her laugh.

First, I line up the ingredients: flour, butter, sugar, cinnamon, milk. Then I measure, not by scales, but by the old cup with a crack down one side. She always said, 'measure with your eye', I whisper. The butter is cold, it resists, but it softens in my hands. I cut it in until it looks like sand. After that, the milk goes in, the spoon dragging through the bowl; the air fills with a sweet, familiar promise.

It isn’t just food; it is our story. When Dad was six, he hid an extra spoon of sugar, and Nan laughed. I want to make it right today because everyone is coming, and they will taste it and remember. Outside, a car door slams. I take a breath, and the oven ticks.

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

Option A:

The room is warm and it smells sweet. Machines hum. Hands pour chocolate into moulds, it shines and is thick like syrup. It moves slow, little rivers, drip drip. A man taps the tray, bubbles rise, the sound is soft, tap tap, like rain. Light from a high window sits on brown chocolate, it looks like a mirror.

In the small workshop there is a bowl of nuts and a bowl of sugar. The worker wears a white coat and a hat, she is careful but fast. She draws thin lines with a bag and they curl. The machine are busy and it don't stop.

Cold air comes when a big fridge door opens. Mist slips out and the smell of cocoa and vanilla jump up. The chocolate sets. It comes out with a small click, it feels like a trick but its just work and time

Option B:

Sunday morning. The kitchen is warm and yellow. Steam hugs the window like breath. Gran holds a old recipe card. It is soft and brown, with butter spots and little tears. She says its our treasure. She says dont lose it.

We are making apple pie, the one we always make. Flour falls on the table like snow and sticks to my fingers, it sticks to my sleeve to, and I laugh but I am nervous. The spoon goes round and round. Sugar, butter, apples. The smell is sweet and it makes my stomach feel like home.

Gran watches. She says, this saved us once, when dad was small, we ate and felt warm, and we remember. I try to cut neat but the slices wobble and I drop a piece, it rolls away. My heart is loud.

The oven ticks. I breath in. I look at the card again, and turn the page.

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

Option A:

The workshop is warm and sweet. Chocolate smell in the air. It is shiny and brown. Hands pour it into small moulds. The metal table is wet with smears. The spoon make a clink clink. They tap the tray, tap tap, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. It is like a river, slow, sticky. I look through the glass and see the shop, people walk by and a bus goes past. The machine hums, the fan too, it never stop. I feel hungry. I want to taste it, the pieces will click when cold. Someone laughs and drops a nut.

Option B:

Sunday. The day when the pot goes on and the book comes out. It is our family recipe, Nan says it like a secret, like a story. The card is soft and brown, my fingers make little marks. Sugar, milk, flour, stir slow, stir slow. I dont read it all right but I know the picture in my head. The spoon is heavy and the bowl is big. The cat watches. I think about the bus later and my friend, he likes cake and football and maybe it will rain, we laugh. The oven door clicks and I wait, and I hope.