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 What does the chief clerk raise?: voice – 1 mark
• 1.2 What does the chief clerk ask after calling Mr. Samsa?: what is wrong? – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the chief clerk, what does Mr. Samsa give for an answer?: no more than yes or no – 1 mark
• 1.4 What does the chief clerk say Mr. Samsa does in his room?: barricades himself in it – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

1 The chief clerk now raised his voice, “Mr. Samsa”, he called to him, “what is wrong? You barricade yourself in your room, give us no more than yes or no for an answer, you are causing serious and unnecessary

6 concern to your parents and you fail—and I mention this just by the way—you fail to carry out your business duties in a way that is quite unheard of. I’m speaking here on behalf

11 of your parents and of your employer, and really must request a clear and immediate explanation. I am astonished, quite astonished. I thought I knew you as a calm and

How does the writer use language here to present the chief clerk’s complaints and attitude towards Mr Samsa? 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 the formal address and rhetorical challenge Mr. Samsa... what is wrong? launch an asyndetic barrage of second-person accusations (You barricade yourself... give us no more than yes or no... you are causing), while the anaphora and disingenuous parenthetical you fail—and I mention this just by the way—you fail expose the chief clerk’s officious, hectoring attitude. It would also track deontic modality and institutional pressure (on behalf of your parents and of your employer, and really must request a clear and immediate explanation), hyperbole unheard of, and emphatic repetition astonished, quite astonished, to show how language choices intensify his authority and moral indignation.

The writer opens with a confrontational interrogative and a formal vocative to frame the clerk’s attitude as officious and accusatory. “raised his voice, ‘Mr. Samsa … what is wrong?’” signals impatient authority. Repeated second-person “you” in “You barricade yourself … give us no more than yes or no” sharpens blame, while the metaphor “barricade” militarises Gregor’s withdrawal, implying wilful resistance rather than vulnerability. The accumulative syntax—“barricade … give … you are causing … and you fail”—forms a catalogue of grievances, and the evaluative pairing “serious and unnecessary” inflates and dismisses the worry, revealing cold pragmatism.

Moreover, the dashes create a parenthetical aside—“and I mention this just by the way”—whose ironic minimisation is passive-aggressive; what he calls incidental is central: “you fail … you fail.” This anaphora spotlights dereliction and intensifies censure, while the hyperbolic verdict “quite unheard of” and the phrase “business duties” foreground a bureaucratic mindset that prizes productivity over empathy.

Furthermore, “I’m speaking … on behalf of your parents and of your employer” is an appeal to authority, enlisting family and company to coerce compliance. The modal “must” in “really must request a clear and immediate explanation” signals deontic modality—an imperative thinly masked as politeness—while the twin modifiers “clear and immediate” tighten urgency. Finally, the declarative “I am astonished, quite astonished” employs diacope to amplify shock, and the broken line “I thought I knew you as a calm and—” (aposiopesis) withholds resolution to imply disappointed judgement. Collectively, these choices present the chief clerk as censorious, controlling and unsympathetic.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The rhetorical question "what is wrong?", accusatory second-person "you barricade", and repetition of "you fail" present a barrage of complaints, with hyperbole "quite unheard of" showing harsh judgement. Formal, authoritative phrasing like "on behalf of your parents and of your employer" and the urgent pair "clear and immediate" increase pressure, while the long, multi-clause sentence and aside "—and I mention this just by the way—" suggest a condescending, hectoring attitude.

The writer presents the chief clerk as accusatory and formal. The interrogative “what is wrong?” immediately challenges Mr Samsa, while the formal vocative “Mr. Samsa” and the verb “raised his voice” create an authoritative tone. The metaphor “You barricade yourself in your room” casts Mr Samsa as defensive and hostile, sharpening the complaint.

Moreover, the long, cumulative sentence using anaphora and second-person pronouns—“You barricade… you are causing… you fail… you fail”—reads like a list of charges. The evaluative adjectives “serious and unnecessary” and the hyperbolic phrase “quite unheard of” intensify blame, making the clerk sound severe. The parenthetical aside, marked by dashes, “and I mention this just by the way,” is a dismissive parenthesis that pretends to minimise a point while actually highlighting it, revealing a passive-aggressive attitude.

Furthermore, the formal lexis and deontic modality in “I… must request a clear and immediate explanation” show him wielding authority, reinforced by the collective “on behalf of your parents and of your employer.” Finally, the short sentence “I am astonished, quite astonished” uses repetition to emphasise shock, and the broken clause “I thought I knew you as a calm and” suggests disapproval so strong it leaves him unfinished, underlining his judgement.

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 direct speech and a rhetorical question "what is wrong?", plus authoritative phrases like "raised his voice" and "request a clear and immediate explanation", to present the chief clerk as bossy and demanding. Simple repetition in "you fail—and I mention this just by the way—you fail" and "astonished, quite astonished", along with emotive language "serious and unnecessary concern" and the strong phrase "barricade yourself", makes his complaints sound urgent and critical.

The writer uses a rhetorical question and raised voice to show the chief clerk’s impatience. He “raised his voice” and asks “what is wrong?”, which sounds demanding and critical of Mr Samsa.

Moreover, the writer lists accusations: “You barricade yourself…, give us no more than yes or no…, you are causing serious and unnecessary concern.” The verb “barricade” suggests Mr Samsa is shutting people out, and “serious and unnecessary” shows the clerk’s judgemental tone.

Furthermore, repetition and parenthesis are used: “you fail—and I mention this just by the way—you fail.” The repeated “fail” highlights his complaints, while the aside makes him seem superior and cold.

Additionally, formal, authoritative phrases like “on behalf of your parents and of your employer” and “must request a clear and immediate explanation” present him as official and pressuring. The repetition “astonished, quite astonished” shows shock and disapproval, and “unheard of” implies extreme offence.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows the clerk’s complaints with a question and a long, listing sentence of accusations like what is wrong?, You barricade yourself, and repeated you fail...you fail, which makes him sound annoyed. Simple repetition and formal, bossy words such as astonished, quite astonished, on behalf, and must request a clear and immediate explanation present him as official and shocked towards Mr Samsa.

The writer shows he “raised his voice” and uses a rhetorical question, “what is wrong?”, to present the chief clerk’s complaint and frustration. The strong verb “barricade” makes Mr Samsa sound difficult. Moreover, the adjectives “serious and unnecessary” show how the clerk blames him. Furthermore, repetition in “astonished, quite astonished” shows his shocked attitude. Additionally, the formal phrase “on behalf” and the modal verb “must” in “must request a clear and immediate explanation” make him sound bossy and official. Overall, the language presents him as blaming and demanding.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Dynamic verb choice signals an assertive, impatient escalation in tone, asserting control over the exchange (raised his voice).
• An interrogative opening frames the visit as disciplinary questioning rather than care, immediately putting him on the defensive (what is wrong?).
• The piling of coordinated clauses creates a relentless list of grievances, conveying pressure and overwhelm (no more than yes or no).
• Evaluative adjectives cast moral judgment and guilt‑trip him by implying his behaviour harms his family (serious and unnecessary).
• A parenthetical aside with dashes sounds officious and passive‑aggressive, pretending a major criticism is incidental (just by the way).
• Anaphoric repetition intensifies censure, hammering the accusation of dereliction of duty (you fail).
• Institutional alignment in the phrase positions him against collective authority, heightening social and professional pressure (on behalf of).
• High modality in the demand asserts power and entitlement to an explanation, increasing urgency (must request).
• Emphatic repetition of astonishment dramatizes his shock and moral superiority, heightening disapproval (quite astonished).
• The unfinished comparative phrase suggests a broken expectation of his character, leaving the reprimand hanging and increasing tension (calm and).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace the structural progression from the chief clerk’s cumulative tirade (e.g., you barricade yourself, astonished, quite astonished) that escalates stakes through piling clauses, to Gregor’s breathless, time-pressured promises (just a moment, eight o’clock, gushed out these words) which quicken the pace, and finally to the step-by-step action sequence (he just slid down again, one last swing, stood there upright, held tightly) whose chronological ordering and repeated setbacks generate momentum. It would also note the shift into a brief lull as he kept quiet to listen, a structural deceleration that heightens suspense by pausing the forward surge.

One way the writer engineers momentum is by plunging us in medias res into the chief clerk’s extended harangue. The opening is dominated by direct speech whose cumulative, polysyndetic syntax (“and I mention this… and really must request… and nor is your position…”) piles accusation upon threat. Long, periodic sentences prevent a pause, so stakes climb from “concern” to the insecurity of Gregor’s “position”. This escalating list works as a structural motor, driving us toward the demand for an “immediate explanation”.

In addition, the abrupt switch in voice accelerates the pace. Gregor’s reply is a gush of short clauses and temporal deixis: “immediately… just a moment… now”, capped by the deadline of the “eight o’clock train”. This repeated time-signalling compresses events into near real time and conveys panic. The verb “gushed” signals uncontrolled flow, while staccato self‑justifications (“I’m slightly unwell… I’m just getting out of bed.”) keep the rhythm brisk. Structurally, this alternation of authority and plea propels the scene forward.

A further structural driver is the shift from dialogue to embodied action, focalised through Gregor, organised as a step‑by‑step sequence. Procedural markers (“The first few times… but… finally… Now… By now”) chart iterative attempts toward a micro‑climax (“one last swing”) and partial resolution (standing “upright”). Conditional clauses (“If they were shocked… If, however…”) project the next beat, while narrative withholding of the door’s opening keeps energy taut. The closing deceleration (“By now he had also calmed down”) is a brief reset that sustains anticipation.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that momentum builds through the alternation of the chief clerk’s escalating direct speech—"raised his voice", "astonished, quite astonished"—and Gregor’s breathless, repeated reassurances—"Just a moment", "I’m just getting out of bed", "hardly knowing what he was saying"—which quicken the pace. The focus then shifts to urgent physical struggle, using sequencing like "The first few times", "finally", "one last swing" to reach a mini-climax at "stood there upright" before easing as he "calmed down", showing how moving from confrontation to action sustains and then releases momentum.

One way the writer structures momentum is by opening with an extended block of the chief clerk’s direct speech. His monologue accumulates complaints and escalating stakes — from “immediate explanation” to “your position… not that secure” — which increases pressure. By addressing him publicly, in front of his parents, the focus narrows onto consequences, pushing the narrative towards a necessary response and quickening the pace.

In addition, the focus shifts to Gregor’s breathless rebuttal, and the syntax mirrors haste. Short interjections inside long clauses — “I’ll open up immediately… Just a moment… I’m quite alright now” — speed the rhythm. Repeated temporal markers (“now”, “immediately”, “eight o’clock train”) compress time and create urgency, propelling him from speech to action.

A further structural feature is the shift from dialogue to physical action, sustaining momentum through incremental movement. The narration details stages — “first few times… slid down again,” then “finally… one last swing” — so we sense progression towards the door. Conditional ‘if’ clauses (“If they were shocked… If, however…”) look ahead, while repeated “now” maintains immediacy, before a brief pause as he “calmed down”.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds momentum by moving from the chief clerk’s long speech where he raised his voice to Gregor’s rushed dialogue like “I’ll open up immediately, just a moment”, then a step-by-step action sequence—made his way over, tried to climb up, finally gave himself one last swing—which speeds up the pace and creates urgency.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create momentum is by starting with direct speech and a raised voice. The chief clerk’s long list of complaints ("you fail...", "your turnover...") and questions ("what is wrong?") piles pressure at the beginning and pushes the scene forward quickly.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts to Gregor’s rushed reply. The repetition and short phrases ("Just a moment", "I’m quite alright now") and the time reference "eight o’clock train" speed up the pace and make the situation feel urgent and moving on.

A further structural feature is the move from dialogue to action, shown in a clear sequence. Gregor "made his way", "tried", then "finally" succeeds; this step-by-step order keeps momentum. At the end, he "calmed down", a change in pace that contrasts and leaves a brief pause.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds momentum by starting with the clerk who now raised his voice and then using Gregor’s quick direct speech like "I’ll open up immediately" and "Just a moment" to create urgency. It speeds up through simple action steps — "hurried", "finally gave himself one last swing" — before slowing when he calmed down, showing a basic change in pace.

One way the writer creates momentum is by opening with direct speech from the chief clerk. His raised voice and a list of complaints push the scene forward and add pressure.

In addition, the focus shifts to Gregor’s fast reply and actions. Short phrases like "Just a moment" and "Be patient!" and his attempt to stand make the pace quicker.

A further feature is the time reference to "the eight o’clock train" and the repeated "now". These time markers and the move from talk to movement create urgency and keep the story moving.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening with the chief clerk’s authoritative confrontation sets immediate pressure and urgency (raised his voice)
• The clerk’s extended tirade accumulates grievances and escalates from surprise to censure, intensifying drive (quite astonished)
• A shift from intended secrecy to public shaming raises stakes and propels events (in private)
• Switch to Gregor’s breathless pledges and commands quickens pace with urgent forward motion (I’ll open up immediately)
• Explicit time pressure and deadlines create a ticking-clock momentum toward action (eight o’clock train)
• Intercutting dialogue with incremental physical effort sustains movement and progression (get himself upright)
• Iterative struggle resolves in a decisive success, accelerating the scene from stall to surge (one last swing)
• Conditional projections of outcomes channel anxiety into action, pushing the scene forward (If they were shocked)
• Temporal signposting stages the sequence and steps the narrative onward (By now)
• A brief pause to listen reframes pace as poised tension, holding momentum toward the next turn (kept quiet)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 41 to the end.

In this part of the source, when Gregor is rushing his excuses to the chief clerk, he sounds panicked. The writer suggests that he is still more worried about his job than about what has happened to his body.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Gregor's panicked excuses to the chief clerk
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present his worry about his job
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively argue that, to a large extent, the writer presents Gregor as prioritising work over his transformed body, analysing the narrative comment 'gushed out these words, hardly knowing what he was saying' and the breathless exclamatives to show panic, while repeated assurances 'I’m quite alright now', the promise 'I’ll set off with the eight o’clock train' and the request to 'recommend me to him' eclipse the ignored pain 'no longer gave any attention to it'. It would acknowledge a brief counterpoint in 'It’s shocking, what can suddenly happen to a person!' but judge it fleeting next to his deference to authority—he even 'kept quiet so that he could listen to what the chief clerk was saying'.

I largely agree: Gregor’s speech sounds panicked, and the writer suggests he is more anxious about his job than his transformed body. Breathless syntax, comic understatement and a bureaucratic register expose his skewed priorities.

At once he is “beside himself” and “forgetting all else”, and his direct speech pours out: “I’ll open up immediately, just a moment… Be patient!” The clustering of imperatives and exclamatives, plus repeated temporal deictics—“now”, “just”, “immediately”—creates a paratactic, breathless rhythm that enacts panic. Crucially, he euphemises the catastrophe as being “slightly unwell, an attack of dizziness”, adopting a clinical register that normalises the grotesque. The flicker of recognition—“It’s shocking, what can suddenly happen to a person!”—is instantly swallowed by further appeasement of the clerk.

His obsession with professional standing dominates. A work-based semantic field saturates the excuses—“accusations”, “latest contracts”, “eight o’clock train”, “office”, “boss”—while modal pledges (“I’ll set off… I’ll be in the office…”) perform compliance. Even the plea “Please, don’t make my parents suffer!” is immediately followed by “recommend me to him”, pivoting back to employability; and “You don’t need to wait, sir” performs timorous courtesy to keep the system moving. The narratorial aside that he was “hardly knowing what he was saying” intensifies the rush, yet the content he rushes is a relentless defence of diligence, which strongly supports the statement.

Structurally, the writer counterpoints this torrent with action that further exposes his priorities. Close focalisation—“easily done, probably because of the practise he had already had in bed”—wryly normalises his “little legs”, turning horror into routine skill. He feels “serious pain” in the “lower part of his body” but “no longer gave any attention to it”, subordinating suffering to opening the door. His conditional planning—“If they were shocked… If, however…”—is a cost–benefit calculation that ends in timetabling: “at the station for eight o’clock.” He even “calmed down… to listen” to the chief clerk, signalling deference to workplace authority.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. Through parataxis, exclamatives and euphemistic understatement, alongside bureaucratic lexis, close focalisation and irony, the writer crafts a panicked voice whose overriding concern is job security. Brief flashes of family worry and self-awareness surface, but they are quickly subsumed, leaving the reader both amused and disturbed by a culture that makes him ignore his own metamorphosis.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: Mostly agree: the writer shows Gregor’s panic through rushed, repetitive excuses and exclamations—Just a moment. Be patient! and that he gushed out these words, hardly knowing what he was saying—while emphasising his job-first mindset in I’ll set off with the eight o’clock train and recommend me to him!
A typical Level 3 response would also note that he no longer gave any attention to it, suggesting he prioritises work over his transformed body.

I largely agree with the statement. When Gregor begins speaking to the chief clerk, the tone is immediately frantic. The narrative describes him as “beside himself” and “forgetting all else,” and his speech rushes out in a breathless stream. The writer uses rapid, paratactic syntax and repetition—“Just a moment… Be patient!… I’m quite alright now”—to create a panicked rhythm. Exclamatives (“Be patient!”) and hedging adverbs (“slightly,” “quite,” “immediately”) show him scrambling to reassure and minimise.

At the same time, the content of his excuses focuses on work more than on his body. He reframes a grotesque transformation as an “attack of dizziness,” using euphemism to downplay it. A clear semantic field of employment—“latest contracts,” “the boss,” “the office,” “recommend me”—dominates his speech, and he promises, “I’ll set off with the eight o’clock train,” which reveals his priority is not recovery but punctuality. His anxious self-defence—“no basis for any of the accusations”—and his appeal, “Please, don’t make my parents suffer,” foreground his fear of professional consequences and family finances. The direct address to the clerk and imperative request to “tell… the boss” underline his deference to workplace authority.

Structurally, the narrative contrasts severe bodily distress with Gregor’s disregard for it: “the lower part of his body was in serious pain but he no longer gave any attention to it.” Even the dehumanising detail of his “little legs” is treated functionally, as he clings to a chair to open the door. There is a shift from frantic speech to controlled listening—“he had also calmed down… to listen to what the chief clerk was saying”—which further centres the job. Although he is “curious” about their reaction to his appearance, he measures it in terms of responsibility: if they are “shocked,” he is absolved; if “calm,” he can still catch the “eight o’clock.”

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer presents Gregor as panicked, yet more consumed by employment and duty than by his monstrous new body.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: At Level 2, a typical response would mostly agree, spotting Gregor’s panic in the rushed dialogue and exclamations like "Just a moment" and "Be patient!", but mainly noticing his job-first focus in "eight o’clock train", "latest contracts" and "recommend me to him", as he even "no longer gave any attention" to his pain.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this section Gregor does sound panicked, and the writer presents him as focusing more on keeping his job than on his shocking new body.

The panicked tone comes through in his rushed dialogue. He uses repetition and exclamations like “Just a moment… Be patient!” which makes his speech sound breathless. He also lists excuses in a confused way: “I’m slightly unwell… I’m quite fresh again now,” which contradicts itself and suggests anxiety. The adverb in “Gregor gushed out these words” and the phrase “hardly knowing what he was saying” show a lack of control. Structurally, the writer moves from frantic direct speech to narration of Gregor’s clumsy movements, keeping the pace quick so we feel his panic.

At the same time, his priorities seem to be work. He argues against “accusations,” mentions “the latest contracts I sent in,” and promises, “I’ll set off with the eight o’clock train.” The polite imperative “please” and the request to “tell that to the boss and recommend me to him” show he is desperate to protect his position. There is a clear contrast between his body and his job: even though “the lower part of his body was in serious pain,” he “no longer gave any attention to it.” He even “calmed down… to listen to what the chief clerk was saying,” which suggests respect for work authority over fear of his transformation.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer presents Gregor as panic-stricken, but his panic is mostly about work and reputation, not about the strange state of his body.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because Gregor seems more worried about work, saying he’ll catch the eight o’clock train and asking the clerk to tell that to the boss and recommend me to him!, while he ignores his body as he no longer gave any attention to it.

I agree with the statement. When Gregor talks to the chief clerk he sounds panicked, and the writer shows he cares more about his job than his body.

His speech feels rushed. The direct speech piles up with commas and short phrases like “Just a moment” and “Be patient!” The repetition of excuses and the exclamation mark show panic. Words like “beside himself” and “gushed” suggest he is not in control, “hardly knowing what he was saying.”

He also keeps focusing on work. He says he will catch “the eight o’clock train,” asks the clerk to “tell... the boss and recommend me,” and mentions “the latest contracts I sent in.” This shows he worries about his job. He even ignores pain: “the lower part of his body was in serious pain but he no longer gave any attention to it.” He wants to open the door so he can speak and get to work.

He is “curious” what they will say when they see him, so his body matters a little. Overall, I agree he sounds panicked and more worried about work.

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:

• Narrative labelling of mental state intensifies panic, supporting a strong-agreement stance that he sounds frantic (beside himself).
• Gushing, unfiltered direct speech shows panic overriding thought, pushing him to appease work quickly (hardly knowing what he was saying).
• Repetition of short pleas creates breathless urgency to comply with authority (Just a moment).
• Forward-planning to meet a work timetable reveals job-first priorities despite illness (eight o’clock train).
• Deferential appeal for approval underscores fear about his standing at work (recommend me to him).
• Defensive reference to performance metrics shows preoccupation with evaluation over health (latest contracts I sent in).
• Minimisation of physical suffering indicates his body is secondary to work demands (no longer gave any attention).
• Determination to reveal himself is framed by a duty to engage his superior at the door (speak with the chief clerk).
• The chief clerk’s accusatory tone raises the stakes, escalating Gregor’s job-anxiety (Your turnover has been very unsatisfactory).
• Counterpoint: brief acknowledgement of bodily shock exists, but it is quickly sidelined by promises and plans, so agreement largely stands (It’s shocking).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A popular history podcast is asking for creative pieces about a single, treasured object from the past.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a much-loved childhood toy from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about an object that brings back a powerful memory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Model Answers

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

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

Option A:

Late-afternoon light drizzles through attic slats, painting the cedar lid in syrupy stripes; between them, he sits—Humbug, my bear—tilted toward the window as though listening. His once-amber fur is rubbed to ash-coloured velvet along the muzzle, though at the nape it still tufts in a small weather system of nap and shadow. One glass eye is crazed like winter ice; the other was replaced by a tortoiseshell button. His nose is a cluster of soot-black crosses—askew but resolute. Along his belly, the seam stands proud, a ridge like a shoreline—a continent of thread mapping where he has been mended.

If you press his chest, the old stuffing sighs, settling with a papery whisper; squeeze his paw, and the hidden squeaker answers with a thin, indignant wheeze—ridiculous, irresistible. He smells of talc and sun-warmed cotton with a whisper of cupboard; on the bald patches, the fabric is glazed smooth by a thousand thumb-circles. A ribbon at his throat, once green, is now the muted green of pond water in shadow; the label behind it, half-legible, still declares: 'MADE FOR YOU'.

Once, when thunder buckled the sky, I tucked him under my chin and breathed until the storm took my breaths and gave them back; his ear filled with my whispered brave. Another time, we voyaged the archipelago of chair-legs, captain and crew; carpet became ocean, blanket foam broke against his paws. His belly kept secrets: the unacceptable marble, the contraband biscuit, the single fizzing sweet—contrition later, crumbs always. Who else listened so completely? Who else took the blame (twice) for the scribble on the hallway wall?

Later, when his head lolled, my mother sutured him at the kitchen table, a daylight surgeon; her needle drew silver stitches like tiny constellations, and I learned that love can be practical. She lifted him back to me; he smelled of tea and starch and the ghost of oranges.

Even now, the attic is cool, dust motes performing lazy revolutions in the lattice of light; my hands are larger, more certain, yet I hold him carefully, as if the years were a glaze that might crack. He is smaller than I remember—inevitable; he is larger than he seems—the way talismans are. To call him worn is precise and imprecise: the wear is the record, the proof. His flaws are a kind of grammar, teaching pauses and emphasis; that shiny patch on his muzzle is the sentence you return to. Perhaps the metaphor labours, but it comforts me.

I settle him back onto the cedar, the lid’s hinge giving its familiar, tired cough; a sliver of sun catches his button, and for a moment the room brightens absurdly. Then the light moves on; Humbug remains, keeper of secrets, custodian of a childhood that still, when summoned, comes padding softly down the stairs.

Option B:

Autumn. The season when light thins; leaves let go; a hush begins. Afternoon sun slants through tired blinds; dust performs its slow ballet, and the house seems to listen. On the sill, half-forgotten, a marble catches the light—cobalt spiralled with milk-white, a tiny storm sealed in glass. Small enough to lose in a pocket. Large enough to hold a world.

I found it at the back of the desk as I boxed up a decade—rubber bands, obsolete chargers, a letter I never posted. Cardboard rasped; tape squealed; the air smelt faintly of old paper and furniture polish. My hand closed around the marble almost absently at first, as if plucking a coin from a fountain; then, as its cool weight pressed into my palm, everything else softened at the edges. Everything dimmed.

Isn’t it strange how memory is braided to matter? One touch, and a thread unspools. I was back on the hill behind our house—boots sinking into wet grass, the sky a polished slate, my breath threading the air. He was there before me, my father, with the ragged blanket. “Keep the marble still, and watch,” he said, placing the tiny planet on my palm and angling the torch; light slid over glass, made galaxies where there were none.

The night answered with its own spectacle: meteors stitched bright scars across the dark. We lay shoulder to shoulder—my head on the pillow of his coat that smelt of bonfires and engine oil—and he talked about constellations, his voice humming with warmth. When the first streak burned itself to nothing, a hush fell that seemed to enlarge the world. It was absurdly simple: a child, a parent, a marble held like a talisman against the enormous, indifferent sky.

He used the marble to teach more than stars. “When it all rushes at you,” he murmured, “find the still thing. Let the rest move around it.” The glass globe steadied my hand as fireworks popped and the city below offered its lament; the wordless lesson lodged somewhere I couldn’t then name. Ordinary, incidental—yet it marked me.

Now, in this room that smells of sellotape and farewell—a palimpsest of us—I press the marble into the slight hollow of my palm. Time is a folded map; at its crease, I am both the child on the hill and the adult with the boxes, and the object—this small, bright planet—rotates quietly between my fingertips.

I put the marble to my ear as if it could whisper the past; of course it says nothing... yet I hear him anyway. After all, what is memory but light caught and held for a moment—then gone, but somehow still warming the hand that held it?

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

Option A:

He sits on the scuffed lid of the wooden chest, as if the room were his ship and he its quiet captain. Late light lays a soft ribbon across his face; dust spirals and settles, making a glittering weather in the room. The fur is rubbed thin where affection found it most—under the chin, along the right arm, across the belly—an honest nap the colour of bread crust. He smells faintly of soap and old paper, a milky scent that is part house, part memory.

We called him Button. One eye is a dark, resinous button; the other, sewn on later with my mother’s steady hands, is a cloudy disc, scratched into pearly whorls. They don’t match, which makes his gaze more trusting: off-centre, always kind. Between them, a seam of careful crosses pulls his face into a permanent smile. His left ear—half-detached, then mended—tilts as if listening. Around his neck a ribbon, rain-washed grey, knots into a fray. His paws are capped with felt, one pad patched with Dad’s old shirt; his belly wears a neat linen square, a bit too white, like bandages after brave surgery.

To hold him is to gather a small history. The stuffing has drifted into hollows where my fingers learned to rest; there is a thumb-shaped corridor along his arm, polished by nights. He has crossed countries in backpacks; he has soaked up rain and tea and tears; he has been a pirate, a doctor, a pillow. Night after night, year after year, I set him on the same pillow and drew the same breath of his warm scent, again and again. Once I dropped him in a puddle and cried until the radiator clicked on; his seams tightened as he dried, wrinkling into little rivers, a map drawn by heat.

He keeps watch from the chest; he does nothing and somehow does everything: he holds the room in its place. If you tilt him into the light you see a galaxy of lint; if you press your nose into his fur you find the shy fragrance of childhood. The stitches are visible—bright, tidy, some clumsy—anchoring cloth to cloth and memory to memory. How small he seems now! Yet he is heavy with what he has absorbed. What is a toy but a container for invisible things—fear soothed, joy amplified, secrets swallowed? I lift him and his smile persists, stubborn as a scar; his name falls back into my mouth, simple as breath: Button.

Option B:

Dust is patient; it settles over the forgotten like winter over a field, pale and absolute. In the low-bellied light of the attic, boxes squat like tired animals, lids askew, labels faded to the colour of tea. My fingers close on a shoebox—soft with age, not heavy, not light: the weight of a held breath. Inside, beneath a crisp drift of receipts and a postcard with a foreign stamp, lies the object I was not looking for but somehow expected: a cassette tape, wrapped carefully in tissue that used to be white.

Alongside it, a small, dented recorder (the sort with square, stubborn buttons) naps like a metal beetle. The tape itself is translucent, smoked grey: inside, a ribbon the colour of dark tea coils and recoils, a patient snake. On its paper sleeve, in blue biro, someone has written For Rainy Days. The edges are scuffed, the screws blooming with rust. When I lift it, a faint scent rises—old paper, a breath of soap, something citric and clean. How can plastic hold a person?

It takes persuasion, and new batteries filched from the TV remote, but the red light glows. I press play. The machine clears its throat—whirr, click—and her voice swims out, a little frayed, still unmistakable. “If it’s raining,” Gran says, amusement tucked into every syllable, “put the kettle on.” The memory arrives not as a picture but a tide. Tiles sweating with steam, lemon rinds curled like yellow moons; the rain’s fingers drumming the window; the clatter of her bangles as she stirs. “Two spoons of sugar,” she says, “unless your heart needs cheering—then three.” I am small again, feet cold on the lino, recording everything—the kettle’s sigh, the clock’s tick. My heart lifts, and aches at the same time.

We made this tape on a day the gutters overflowed and the road became a river; she called it our emergency sunshine. She wanted me to have a recipe for grey days: tea, toast, a story about the time she outran a storm. It is ordinary and it is precious—exact, domestic, golden.

When the voice fades, there is a pause I don’t remember. A breath opens in the static. Paper rustles; a chair leg scrapes. “If I’m not—” she begins, soft as mist, and the tape snags. The ribbon judders; the machine wheezes to a halt. I don’t move. Even the dust seems to listen. Somewhere downstairs, the kettle—out of habit—begins to sing.

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

Option A:

Propped on the lid of the scuffed pine chest, my bear waits where the light finds him. Dust lifts in lazy spirals; the afternoon sun spills a mellow stripe across his faded belly. His fur has thinned to the hush of old velvet, smoothed by years of hands; the stitched mouth sags into a calm, surprising smile. One plastic eye is clouded with tiny scratches, the other still glints like a small winter moon. His ribbon—once scarlet—has drifted into the colour of tea. A neat patch sits on his tummy, leaf-shaped and slightly crooked; an ear is tethered with blue cotton that bites and crosses, bites and crosses. He leans a little, as if listening for a secret. He smells of dust and soap and something sweet; the kind of smell that seems to know your name.

At first, he was bigger than my arm, which made him feel important. He came everywhere: to the doctor’s room; to the windy park; to the top bunk. When rain rapped the roof and the world felt too loud, I pressed him to my ribs and he absorbed the noise. Tea parties left him freckled with crumbs; there’s still a thin stain near his paw that looks like murmured jam. Gran stitched his left arm one summer, and I watched the needle tug and gleam; the thread slid through with a soft, determined whisper. On long car rides, his head juddered with the road; outside, hedges ran like green handwriting. Bedtime had its ritual: I would press his nose twice—superstition, comfort, prayer—and the bedside lamp sighed into a warm, tigerish halo. He never answered, of course; he simply allowed the day to fold.

Now he sits quietly, as if holding his breath. The seams are not perfect; one of my later repairs wanders (clumsily) along his side, but it holds. If I lift him, a faint squeak lives inside his chest; my hands remember the shape before my mind does. The smell is a bit musty, to be honest, yet kind and homely. Time has bleached his fur and brightened his meaning: a small map back to being small. Even now, worry loosens in his company. I set him down again; sunlight pools at his feet; the dust dances—busy, like tiny snow. Ordinary to anyone else; extraordinary to me. And the room, relieved, learns to be quiet.

Option B:

The tin slid out from the back of the drawer with a sigh. Its green paint was blistered, its corners whitened where hands had worried them smooth; inside, nested in moth-grey velvet, lay my father’s fountain pen. The room smelt of polish and dust, yet beneath that there was a vein of iron, a ghost of ink that made the air taste metallic. I wasn’t looking for this. I was just clearing, sorting, pretending to be practical, and then the pen was in my palm and the past stood up quietly.

The barrel was bottle-green with thin gold veins, like leaf stems held to the light. A hairline crack ran from the cap to the clip; the nib, fine as a bird’s beak, glinted even though I hadn’t cleaned it in years. When I turned it, light slipped along its shape and my thumb came away blue, as if the pen still bled. Back then I was nine at the kitchen table, elbows off, chin set. Steam strode from the kettle; sunlight tiled the floor. He leaned over my shoulder and tapped the paper—slowly, he’d say, let the pen do the work. My letters came out like stubborn soldiers, all knees and elbows, while his wrote themselves as if they already knew where to go. He laughed, he nudged the pen in my tired fingers, the smell of mints, the steadiness of his hands. He showed me how to angle the nib so ink flowed, the thin black river finding its way; my name, at last, looked almost like it belonged to me.

The last time I saw him he couldn’t talk. The ward hummed with machines pretending to be calm. His voice had been taken by the tube and the medicine, but someone had left a receipt on the tray. He gestured for a pen and I fished this one from my bag—more reflex than thought. He wrote slowly, each stroke careful, a tiny tremor turning the words into waves. Go on, he wrote. Then he underlined it, once. Go on.

Now the pen sits again in my hand, heavy for its size. I could put it back in the tin; I could close the drawer and forget. Instead I reach for the ink bottle, clumsy, and a drop blooms on my thumb like a bruise. When the nib touches paper, the room isn’t empty at all.

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

Option A:

He sits on the old wooden chest, small and patient, with the faded kind of brown that once was warm as toast. His fur is rubbed thin in places—threadbare around the nose—so the stitching shows like a neat scar. One eye is scratched; the other catches the light and looks almost alive. A ribbon, bleached pale, hangs crooked from his neck. At his paw, a patch of blue cotton is sewn on in big, careful crosses. He smells of dust and talcum, like a quiet cupboard opened in the afternoon. On his label, my scrawled name leans: Mossy.

Yes, he looks tired. But he has stood through many small storms. I pressed him to my face during thunder; I told him secrets; I took him on long, make-believe voyages across the sofa sea. When his paw came loose, Gran’s needle flashed in the kitchen light, pulling grey thread through fluff; her hands were steadier than mine, and kinder. He gathered crumbs and tears with the same calm silence. When I was ill, he kept watch like a serious guard by the window where rain sprinted down the glass.

Now I lift him again, and he feels heavier than he should—weighty with memory. My palms are bigger; his body is the same. The seam at his shoulder is a little crooked, yet strong. The chest creaks; dust floats. He is not just cloth: he is a map of where I’ve been. I set him down carefully, as if he might stir, and the room settles too, quieter.

Option B:

Dust. The kind that floats golden in afternoon light; the kind that settles on forgotten things and gives them a coat of years.

In the low attic the air was thick with the smell of old paper and damp cardboard. A narrow window drew a white stripe over the floorboards, and it cut across a box—the one with “Misc” scrawled in faded marker. I told myself I was only tidying, nothing more.

Inside: photographs with curled corners, a dried sprig of lavender, a bus ticket turned translucent. Under those, wrapped in tissue like a small secret, lay the compass. Brass, scratched, its glass slightly cracked; the needle quivered as if it were alive. I lifted it by its frayed leather loop, expecting it to be cold, but it had kept attic warmth. I held the compass, it trembled in my hand. Why did I keep it all this time?

I didn’t mean to open that door in my head. I didn’t plan to fall into a day that still glows. But the smell of metal, the weight of it, the tiny click as the lid shut—it all rushed me.

We were by the river: the water a dull green ribbon, the sky heavy with rain. His coat smelled of mint and smoke. He pushed the compass into my palm and closed my fingers around it. “Don’t look for easy,” he said, with a soft laugh, “look for true.” His hands were rough; mine were cold and small. The needle shivered north and my chest did too.

Back in the attic, light shifted and the dust moved on. I should have put it away; instead, I cupped it tighter. The compass pointed somewhere I could not see—no map for it, no road—only the straight line back to him.

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

Option A:

Sunlight spills over my old bear, slumped on the wooden chest. His fur was once honey; now it is tea-stained and thin, rubbed to a shine on his belly. One ear is stitched back on with a bright, wrong red thread that shows every knot. He leans slightly to the left as if listening. I named him Mr Patches. He still smells faintly of talc and attic dust.

A blue button for one eye, scratched with tiny crescents; the other is a cloudy bead that tilts. His stitched smile is lopsided and kind. The paw pads are bald, the fabric rubbed away so you can feel the cardboard, gritty, underneath. A faded ribbon rests around his neck—once striped, now half colourless. If I press his squishy tummy there is still a stubborn squeak. There is tiny holes along his seams, loosing fluff like pale snow.

Back then, he was my shield when thunder grumbled; we hid under the duvet and counted, one-two-three. At tea parties he sipped invisible tea and behaved politely. He came to the dentist in my bag, and I squeezed him until the fear softened. I told him secrets again and again. He waited; he listened; he never told.

Now he sits quietly, keeping the shape of my hands. He is only cloth and thread, but he is heavy with all those hours. He looks shabby, almost silly, yet to me he looks important. I smooth his bent ear and the room feels smaller, safer—like before.

Option B:

Boxes crouched under the stairs like quiet animals. When I tugged the top one out, dust lifted and curled in the light; it looked alive. Inside, under a tangle of ribbon and old receipts, there was the cassette. The label was a strip of yellowing paper, Mum’s handwriting smudged: Summer 2008. The plastic case clicked as I opened it and the tape inside looked like a river, black and tight. It felt colder than it looked; I held it anyway, my fingers shaking.

As soon as my thumb brushed the spool, the room tipped backwards. Heat climbed through me, car windows open, Mum’s hair flapping wild, Dads hand tapping the steering wheel in time. Click—whirr—song. The smell of chips and salt blew in; my cheeks were hot, but I was laughing. The tape sang and the sky was so blue it hurt. I remember the map crinkling on my lap. I remember promising I would never forget this, even though memory hides the corners.

Now the kitchen feels smaller, like the walls lean in to listen. The kettle hums; the clock nags. I don’t even own a player anymore, but the object in my palm is heavier than a stone. It is plastic and ribbon, but also a door I can’t see through yet. Should I try to hear it again? Would the song sound the same—would his laugh? I set the tape down carefully, as if it could crack and spill the past over the floor.

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

Option A:

When I was small, my best friend wasn't loud or shiny. It was a teddy bear, squashed and warm, on the chest by my bed. His fur was faded honey, rubbed to threadbare in places, and his one button eye caught the sun like a tiny coin. I called him Captain. Soft but a bit scratchy, he felt safe in my hands.

Now he perches on my shelf, leaning forward as if he listens. The ear on the left is re-stitched with blue cotton; a heart patch sits on his belly where stuffing once escaped. The pads on his paws are shiny, the ribbon at his neck is frayed. When I press his belly, the squeak is a whisper, I try it again and again and it makes me smile. He smells musty, like rainy afternoons and hot milk.

Sometimes I think he guarded me. When the house felt huge and echoing, I tucked him under my chin, and the dark stepped back. He is not new; he is true. Cuts, stitches, patches: proof. His small smile looks crooked, like he is trying to be brave. Who would ever throw him away? Not me - never. I keep him, always, always.

Option B:

I found it under a folded scarf at the back of the cupboard, a thin layer of dust on everything. The little watch was colder than I expected, smooth and scratched, with a face like a tiny moon. When I held it, my fingers shook a bit; I don't know why. It didn't tick anymore—still, I thought I could hear it.

On the back a small engraving, almost rubbed away: To Sam, all my time. As I read it, the room tilted; I was back in that corridor. The chairs were hard, lemon cleaner sat in the air like a warning. My mother stirred a paper cup and my knee bounced, a useless engine. I listened for a door, for a voice; all I heard was the clock, beating like a heart I couldn't touch. Now the watch looks small in my hand. I try to wind it, careful, clumsy. For a second nothing happens, then the faintest tick, and I breathe out, slow. It is only metal and glass, I know, but it brings him close.

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

Option A:

My teddy bear is old and kind of flat. He has button eyes, one is scratched so it looks cloudy. The fur used to be soft like clouds but now it is rubbed thin and shiney. There is a stich on his ear where Nan fixed it, I can see the little cross shapes, I pick at them sometimes and then stop. He smells like soap and dust and it makes me calm.

I call him Mr Patch, becuase there is a square patch on his belly, it is crooked and blue. He sits on my wooden chest: he leans to the side like he is tired, waiting for me. The ribbon is gone. I hug him again and again until my arms ache!

Sometimes he looks like he is listening to me. I talk to him when the house is loud and I feel small and I say, you remember, you was there.

Option B:

The box was small and brown. Dust sat on it like flour. I blow and it flies up and tickles my nose. I laugh, then I don't. My hands shake a bit, I don't know why.

Inside was a red scarf. mums scarf. It still smells like her perfume, sweet and kind. I hold it and its soft, like warm rain. In my head the living room comes back, the blue sofa, the wet window, the door.

I am sitting on the carpet and she ties the scarf round my neck. She says it will keep me safe. The kettle sang, the clock was loud and we were quiet.

I breathe in. The scarf tastes of dust and apples. I am back there, small as a coin. The rain is falling again and she is leaving and I cant stop it

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

Option A:

My teddy is very old it is my best toy. The fur is brown and rubbed off in places, it feels rough then soft. One button eye is big the other is loose and it looks funny. I hug it hard and it goes squeek and the head wobbles. It smells dusty like the cupboard. I take it everywhere, to the shop to the park. Once the ear fell off and I cried and mum sew it back, back and back again. I remember dropping it in mud on a hot day, the sky was blue. The bear was wet and heavy and I didn’t.

Option B:

The small tin sits on the shelf. It is blue and dented and dusty. I pick it up, it feels cold on my hand. Inside there is a red ribbon. When I touch it I remember the fair with my brother, the lights were bright and the music was loud and he won the ribbon for me. I seen his face then and he was laughing, later he went away and we dont talk. The ribbon smells like old rain. My hand shake like a leaf. I want to keep it and I dont. A bus goes past outside and I think about the airport. The tin wont close, I breath slow.