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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 Which statement best describes the narrator's judgement of the piece's method and results?: The narrator respects the careful method but thinks the results go too far. – 1 mark
• 1.2 How does the narrator evaluate the piece's reasoning and its conclusions?: The narrator respects the careful logic but doubts the outcomes, seeing them as overstated. – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which statement best summarises the narrator's view of the work's approach and conclusions?: The narrator judges the work's approach to be rigorous, but considers the work's conclusions overstated. – 1 mark
• 1.4 What judgement does the narrator make about the essay’s reasoning and the conclusions drawn?: The narrator judges the reasoning to be careful, but thinks the conclusions go too far. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

1 Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of Life,” and it attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and systematic examination of all that came in his way. It struck me as being a remarkable mixture of shrewness and of absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions appeared to me to be far-fetched and exaggerated. The

6 writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to fathom a man’s inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one trained to observation and analysis. His conclusions were as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid. So startling would his results appear to the uninitiated that until they learned the

11 processes by which he had arrived at them they might well consider him as a necromancer. “From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or

How does the writer use language here to present the claims in the article and the impression they make on others? 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 explore how the somewhat ambitious title The Book of Life frames grandiose claims, then analyse the antithesis in shrewness and absurdity, the shift from close and intense reasoning to far-fetched and exaggerated deductions, and the absolute lexis of impossibility and infallible—bolstered by the simile/allusion as so many propositions of Euclid—while showing how the tricolon a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye and the hyperbolic analogy from From a drop of water to an Atlantic or a Niagara make the results startling to the uninitiated, who perceive him as a necromancer, with the long, balanced clauses projecting scientific authority.

The writer frames the article with a grand, almost biblical claim in its “somewhat ambitious” title, “The Book of Life.” The evaluative adjective signals the narrator’s scepticism, while the capitalised, intertextual allusion lends spurious authority. Similarly, the collocation “accurate and systematic” belongs to a scientific semantic field, presenting the claims as empirically grounded and methodical, designed to impress readers with rigour before they even encounter the deductions.

However, this credibility is undercut through antithesis: a “remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity.” The balanced syntax “The reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions… far‑fetched and exaggerated” pivots on the adversative “but,” foregrounding overreach. Moreover, the tricolon “a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle, or a glance of an eye” reduces people, via synecdoche, to readable fragments, while the verb “fathom” metaphorically plunges into “a man’s inmost thoughts.” Together, these choices construct audacious claims of near‑omniscience that may unsettle as much as they persuade.

Furthermore, absolute modality heightens certainty: “Deceit… was an impossibility,” and conclusions “infallible,” reinforced by the classical simile “as… propositions of Euclid,” which confers mathematical authority. The inversion “So startling would his results appear” foregrounds shock, and the noun “uninitiated” casts the method as esoteric; outsiders “might… consider him as a necromancer”—a metaphor making his claims seem occult. Finally, the analogy “From a drop of water… an Atlantic or a Niagara” uses hyperbole and scale to dramatise deduction from minutiae, leaving readers dazzled yet wary. Thus, the language presents grand claims and the awe they inspire.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Level 3 would identify contrast and evaluative language to present bold claims: "remarkable mixture of shrewness and of absurdity", "close and intense" versus "far-fetched and exaggerated", and absolutes like "Deceit... was an impossibility" and "as infallible as... propositions of Euclid" to suggest certainty as well as excess. It would also pick out the list "a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye" and the analogy "From a drop of water... an Atlantic or a Niagara" to show huge inferences from tiny details, while a causal complex sentence ("until they learned the processes... they might well consider him as a necromancer") and "uninitiated" show others find the results startling, even magical.

The writer presents the article’s claims using evaluative language. The title is “somewhat ambitious,” hinting at doubt. He then uses juxtaposition in “a remarkable mixture of shrewdness and of absurdity,” which positions the claims as clever yet unbelievable. Similarly, “The reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions… far-fetched and exaggerated” contrasts logical method with outlandish outcomes, making the system impressive in process but doubtful in conclusion.

Furthermore, absolute lexis like “impossibility” and “infallible,” together with the classical simile “as so many propositions of Euclid,” makes the claims sound mathematically certain, elevating their authority. Technical register “observation and analysis” and the tricolon “a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye” suggest a systematic, exhaustive method, which could persuade readers that tiny details yield profound truths.

Additionally, noun choice “the uninitiated” implies an exclusive circle of knowledge, and the metaphor “necromancer” shows how outsiders might see the results as magical, creating awe and suspicion. The analogy “From a drop of water… infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara” uses hyperbole to dramatise deduction. The inverted opening “So startling would his results appear” foregrounds shock, emphasising the impression the claims make on others.

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 strong adjectives like "close and intense" and "infallible", a list of tiny signs "a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye", and a comparison to maths "as so many propositions of Euclid" to make the claims sound precise and scientific. However, contrasting phrases like "far-fetched and exaggerated" and dramatic imagery such as "necromancer" and "From a drop of water ... an Atlantic or a Niagara" suggest exaggeration, so others see the claims as amazing but unbelievable.

The writer uses evaluative adjectives to present the claims as bold but doubtful. The “ambitious title” and “remarkable mixture… of absurdity” show that the article sounds clever but also silly. Words like “far‑fetched and exaggerated” suggest the claims seem too extreme to others.

Furthermore, a simile gives authority to the writer’s method: his conclusions are “as infallible as… Euclid.” This makes the claims sound scientific and certain. The list “a momentary expression, a twitch… or a glance” shows he can read tiny signs, which impresses people.

Additionally, hyperbole and metaphor shape the impression on outsiders. “From a drop of water… an Atlantic or a Niagara” exaggerates deduction from little evidence, making it seem unbelievable. So, to the “uninitiated” he appears like a “necromancer,” creating a magical, almost suspicious impression.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses adjectives like 'ambitious' and 'far-fetched' to show the claims seem exaggerated, and the comparison 'as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid' makes them sound certain. Words such as 'necromancer' and 'From a drop of water' make it seem almost magical, so others are surprised or impressed.

The writer uses adjectives like “ambitious” and “remarkable” to present the article’s bold claims. Moreover, the list “a momentary expression, a twitch... a glance” suggests he can read tiny signs, making him seem clever. The simile “as infallible as so many propositions of Euclid” presents the deductions as certain, which impresses people. Furthermore, hyperbole in “from a drop of water... an Atlantic or a Niagara” makes the method sound extreme. Finally, the word “necromancer” and “startling” give the impression to others that his results feel magical and unbelievable.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Evaluative hedging undermines grandeur, injecting early scepticism about the claims (somewhat ambitious title)
• Scientific lexis frames the method as precise and objective, building an aura of authority (accurate and systematic)
• Balanced antithesis creates an ambivalent tone, acknowledging both insight and silliness (mixture of shrewness and of absurdity)
• Juxtaposition contrasts sound logic with overreaching outcomes, questioning the validity of the leaps (far-fetched and exaggerated)
• Tricolon of micro-gestures suggests exhaustive observation, implying nothing escapes this method (a glance of an eye)
• Penetrative verb and depth imagery inflate the reach of inference, bordering on implausible mind-reading (fathom a man’s inmost thoughts)
• Absolutist modality projects total certainty, which can impress yet seem hubristic (infallible)
• Learned allusion/simile lends mathematical credibility, recasting conclusions as axiomatic rather than speculative (propositions of Euclid)
• Inversion foregrounds impact on outsiders, who perceive the feats as uncanny or magical (the uninitiated)
• Striking analogy magnifies the leap from tiny detail to vast conclusion, evoking wonder and doubt (From a drop of water)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: Structurally, the text modulates from the lofty treatise (From a drop of water, So all life is a great chain) into a methodical enumeration (By a man’s finger nails) that slows the pace, then into a domestic dialogue (I sat down to my breakfast) where Watson’s outburst (What ineffable twaddle!) is countered by Holmes who remarked calmly. This progression culminates in the reassuring reveal (I wrote it myself) and practical grounding in bread and cheese, reframing the earlier intensity as routine and creating an overall sense of calm by the end.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create calm is by opening with a methodical, expository passage that accretes evidence through enumeration. The interpolated treatise uses long sentences and anaphoric listing—“By a man’s finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot...” —which slows the pace and imposes order. Even the maxim “From a drop of water... a logician could infer...” frames life as a “great chain,” suggesting pattern and predictability. This steady, cumulative structure lulls the reader into measured tranquillity.

In addition, a shift in focus to a domestic breakfast scene tempers the brief flare of conflict. The brisk, dialogic exchange—“What ineffable twaddle!”—threatens to unsettle the mood, but the pivot arrives with the reported tag “Holmes remarked calmly” and the withheld revelation, “As for the article I wrote it myself.” This strategic delay and disclosure act as a release valve: dispute gives way to authority and clarity, restoring composure.

A further structural feature is the sequencing from revelation to routine. After the volte-face, Holmes delivers a cause-and-effect explanation—“When these fellows are at fault they come to me... They lay all the evidence before me... I am generally able... to set them straight.” This logical progression, and the final exemplum about Lestrade, move the extract towards a denouement in which “fog” yields to guidance. The sustained first-person frame contains these shifts, so the whole piece moves from abstract order, through brief discord, to calm resolution.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would typically explain that the writer opens with measured exposition of “The Book of Life,” using a cumulative list like “By a man’s finger nails… by his coat-sleeve” to create an orderly rhythm, then shifts to dialogue where the outburst “What ineffable twaddle!” is contrasted with Holmes’s “remarked calmly” and his clarification “I’m a consulting detective.” This movement from abstract theory to a concrete “forgery case” resolves the brief tension and leaves a calm, assured tone by the end.

One way in which the writer structures calm is through the ordered exposition at the start. The argument unfolds in long sentences and a cumulative list, for example "By a man's finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boot...," which creates a steady rhythm and slows the pace. This logical progression makes the ideas feel controlled and methodical, lulling the reader into a composed mood.

In addition, a deliberate shift in focus to dialogue introduces a brief disturbance that is quickly soothed. The exclamative "What ineffable twaddle!" and clipped "You!" contrast with the earlier flow, but Holmes's understated reply - "remarked calmly" and "I wrote it myself" - uses brevity and understatement to defuse tension. This juxtaposition of short outbursts with calm, measured responses de-escalates conflict and restores equilibrium.

A further structural choice that creates calm is the linear explanation that concludes the extract. Holmes sequences his role clearly: "Here in London... When these fellows are at fault... They lay all the evidence before me... I am generally able" - which re-establishes a controlled pace. The focus narrows from theory to routine practice, and the ending detail, "Lestrade... a forgery case," is factual and low-key, so the source closes on a settled note.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Structurally, the text calms by moving from an ordered list of observations ("By a man’s finger nails...") to a brief outburst ("What ineffable twaddle!"), then settling as Holmes "remarked calmly" and the steady Q&A (e.g., "I asked involuntarily") make the ending feel controlled.

One way the writer structures the text to create calm is at the beginning, using long, steady sentences and a list in the article. The repeated “by his finger nails… by his coat-sleeve…” slows the pace and feels organised. Phrases like “From a drop of water” and “great chain” make the tone measured, which calms the reader.

In addition, there is a change in focus to dialogue. Although Watson is annoyed, Holmes “remarked calmly”, and this shift of voice steadies the mood. The short question-and-answer pattern lets Holmes take control, which reduces tension.

A further way is how the ending resolves uncertainty. The perspective settles on Holmes explaining his role: “I’m a consulting detective… they lay all the evidence before me.” This clear explanation at the end gives closure and reassures the reader, so calm emerges by the end of the source.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the writer moves from the article about “The Book of Life” to a quieter breakfast moment (“sat down to my breakfast”), which slows things down. It ends with Holmes “remarked calmly”, so the ending feels calm.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create calm is the opening, which reads like an article. It is organised and uses a list (“by a man’s finger nails...”), so the structure feels steady.

In addition, there is a shift in focus from the article to dialogue at breakfast. Holmes “remarked calmly”, and short replies like “Yes” make the scene settle and slow the pace.

A further structural feature is the ending explanation. The final lines give a clear account of his job, so by the end the tone is calm.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening with an inserted treatise creates a formal, orderly frame that steadies the reader before any drama (The Book of Life).
• The analogy moves from small to vast in a controlled arc, suggesting the world is intelligible and manageable (From a drop of water).
• Claims of logical certainty anchor the mood in reliability, easing tension through assured reasoning (propositions of Euclid).
• Step-by-step guidance via gentle imperatives structures a calm learning pathway for the reader (begin by mastering).
• Anaphoric listing builds a methodical rhythm, slowing pace and implying mastery over detail (By a man’s finger nails).
• A swift shift to dialogue in a domestic moment is balanced by Holmes’s poised reply, immediately restoring poise (remarked calmly).
• The mid-point reveal resolves uncertainty and diffuses conflict, turning dispute into clarity (I wrote it myself).
• A sequential, cause‑and‑effect explanation models control and resolution, reinforcing a composed tone (put them on the right scent).
• Generalisation about patterns in crime promises predictability, which reassures and settles the mood (strong family resemblance).
• Finishing with a concrete case reference provides closure and stability, ending the section on composed certainty (brought him here).

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, where Holmes calmly reveals he wrote the article, it's a surprising moment that makes Watson look foolish. The writer suggests that Holmes is not just clever, but also enjoys proving other people wrong.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Holmes's calm revelation of his authorship
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray Holmes's intellectual superiority
• 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 evaluate how Doyle engineers a power shift: the laconic revelations "You would lose your money" and "I wrote it myself", delivered "remarked calmly", puncture Watson’s certainty and render his earlier scorn foolish. It would argue that Holmes relishes correction—evident in the faint condescension of "if you can understand what that is" and the superiority of "When these fellows are at fault they come to me"—while noting that his claim the methods are "extremely practical—so practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese" suggests professional assurance as much as point-scoring.

I largely agree that Holmes’s calm revelation is a surprising coup that casts Watson as foolish, and that the writer intimates Holmes not only out-thinks others but also quietly enjoys setting them straight, though that pleasure is restrained and professional rather than cruel.

Conan Doyle carefully engineers the surprise by first foregrounding Watson’s bluster. The hyperbolic exclamation “What ineffable twaddle!” and “I never read such rubbish in my life” establishes an emphatic, contemptuous tone. Concrete, bathetic detail — Watson “slapping the magazine” and pointing “with my egg spoon” — characterises him as impulsive and faintly ridiculous, primed for a fall. His pompous dismissal of the anonymous author as an “arm-chair lounger” and his swaggering wager, “I would lay a thousand to one against him,” heighten the stakes. This set-up is undercut by Holmes’s laconic, adverbially marked retort: “You would lose your money,” he “remarked calmly,” before the brusque declarative pivot, “As for the article I wrote it myself.” The adverb “calmly” crystallises Holmes’s unflappable superiority, while the abruptness of the reveal creates structural surprise.

Watson’s humiliation is crystallised in the clipped exclamative “You!”, which captures his shock, and the confession “I asked involuntarily,” signalling a loss of composure. Dramatic irony blooms retrospectively: the reader sees how Watson’s earlier tirade — “seclusion,” “chimerical,” “not practical” — misfires comically when aimed at Holmes. The narrative’s first-person perspective is self-deprecating; by preserving the mortifying “egg spoon” and his own rash odds, Watson allows the writer to make him look foolish in order to magnify Holmes.

The passage then modulates into Holmes’s measured self-portrait, consolidating intellectual superiority through controlled diction and metaphor. Understated self-assessment — “I have a turn both for observation and for deduction” — veils audacity within modesty, before the grander claim, “I suppose I am the only one in the world,” signals singularity. Idiom demystifies genius: his methods are “extremely practical… for my bread and cheese.” A cluster of metaphors — crime’s “strong family resemblance,” knowledge “at your finger ends,” and putting others “on the right scent” — constructs him as methodical and masterful. Crucially, he positions himself as the arbiter when others are “at fault,” including the named Lestrade who “got himself into a fog.” The mildly teasing image of a detective lost in “fog,” and Holmes’s cool “set them straight,” imply a dry satisfaction in correction. Yet his tone remains courteous and explanatory, not gloating.

Overall, the reveal is indeed a deft, surprising reversal that exposes Watson’s folly, and the writer suggests that Holmes relishes being right and righting others. However, the adverbial calm and measured exposition nuance that relish as a professional, almost playful assurance rather than a desire to humiliate.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the writer uses contrast and irony to make Watson look foolish—his scornful “What ineffable twaddle!” and shocked “You!” are undercut by Holmes’s poise in “remarked calmly” and the understated bombshell “I wrote it myself,” along with the teasing “You would lose your money” that suggests he enjoys proving others wrong. It would support this by commenting on method, noting Holmes’s confident self-definition as a “consulting detective” and the practical claim “I depend upon them for my bread and cheese” to establish intellectual superiority.

I largely agree with the statement. The revelation that Holmes wrote the article is a surprising reversal that exposes Watson’s rashness, and the writer suggests Holmes not only outthinks others but quietly enjoys correcting them.

At the start of the passage, Watson’s exasperated outburst “What ineffable twaddle!” and the exclamative “I never read such rubbish in my life” create a dismissive, overconfident tone. The hyperbole “I would lay a thousand to one against him” further shows Watson’s certainty, while the domestic detail of the “egg spoon” as he “sat down to my breakfast” makes his scorn seem complacent. This sets up a structural contrast that the writer then flips, priming the reader for the surprise.

Holmes’s revelation is delivered with controlled understatement: “You would lose your money,” he “remarked calmly.” The adverb “calmly” emphasises his composure and intellectual superiority, while the short declarative “I wrote it myself” is a blunt, deflating punchline. Watson’s stunned, single-word exclamation “You!” captures the shock and makes him look foolish in hindsight; the situational irony (mocking an essay to its author) is both comic and humiliating.

Holmes’s subsequent explanation consolidates this superiority. He contrasts Watson’s accusation of “chimerical” with “extremely practical,” and the everyday metaphor “bread and cheese” grounds his methods in real utility. Phrases like “I suppose I am the only one in the world” and “I am generally able… to set them straight” suggest self-assurance and a hint of relish in correcting others. Even the anecdote about Lestrade “in a fog” carries a sly condescension, implying Holmes takes satisfaction in rescuing baffled professionals.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the calm reveal is an effective, surprising moment that exposes Watson’s hasty judgement. Through dialogue, irony, adverbial choice, and a sharp structural shift, the writer presents Holmes as brilliantly practical—and as someone who, without gloating, clearly enjoys proving others wrong.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Mostly agree: a Level 2 response would spot the calm reveal (remarked calmly, "I wrote it myself") that surprises Watson ("You!") and shows Holmes’s cleverness. It would also note he seems to enjoy proving others wrong with "You would lose your money", giving a simple example of his practicality in earning his "bread and cheese" as a "consulting detective".

I mostly agree with the statement. The moment is surprising, and it does make Watson look foolish. At the start, Watson bursts out “What ineffable twaddle!” with an exclamatory sentence and even “slapping the magazine” and pointing with his egg spoon. This makes him seem emotional and a bit silly. Then Holmes “remarked calmly” and says, “I wrote it myself.” This twist is unexpected for the reader as well as Watson, because the earlier description of “some arm-chair lounger” makes us think it was written by someone else. The irony of Watson attacking Holmes’s own writing makes Watson look foolish.

The writer shows Holmes’s superiority through contrast in tone and dialogue. The adverb “calmly” and the short, firm line “You would lose your money” sound confident and slightly mocking. Holmes then calls his ideas “extremely practical” and says he depends on them for his “bread and cheese,” which makes him seem grounded as well as clever. The first-person narration lets us hear Watson’s rash judgments directly before Holmes corrects them.

I also think the writer suggests Holmes enjoys proving others wrong. Phrases like “set them straight” and the patronising aside “if you can understand what that is” show a hint of pride. He even mentions Lestrade being “in a fog,” a metaphor that makes other detectives seem confused compared to him. However, his calm manner stops him seeming cruel.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the reveal is surprising and makes Watson look foolish, and Holmes appears not just brilliant but pleased to correct people.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree that Holmes is clever and likes proving others wrong. It would spot the surprise and calm tone with simple references like remarked calmly, I wrote it myself, Watson’s shock You!, and lines such as You would lose your money and his claim of observation and deduction, to say Watson looks foolish.

I mostly agree with the statement. When Holmes calmly reveals he wrote the article, it is surprising and it does make Watson look foolish. The adverb “calmly” and the simple line “I wrote it myself” show Holmes is relaxed, while Watson has just shouted “What ineffable twaddle!” and slammed the magazine. The writer uses dialogue and exclamation marks like “You!” to show Watson’s shock. Watson even boasts “I would lay a thousand to one”, but Holmes replies, “You would lose your money”, which makes Watson look wrong.

The contrast between Watson’s angry tone and Holmes’s short, confident sentences makes Holmes seem clever. Holmes also lists his skills: “observation” and “deduction”. The first-person “I” repeated (“I have a trade of my own… I’m a consulting detective”) sounds proud. I think the writer suggests he enjoys proving others wrong, because he says other detectives “come to me” and he can “set them straight”. The image of Lestrade “in a fog” makes Holmes look like the one who clears it.

Overall, I agree that the reveal is a surprise and shows Watson up, and that Holmes is not only intelligent but likes correcting people.

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:

• Structural twist with understated delivery → the confession reverses expectations, producing surprise and making Watson’s earlier scorn look rash ("I wrote it myself")
• Tonal contrast (exclamation vs restraint) → Watson’s outburst is undercut by Holmes’s composure, making him appear foolish ("What ineffable twaddle!")
• Hyperbolic wager → Watson’s confidence is disproved instantly, heightening the comic shock and his embarrassment ("a thousand to one")
• Physical gesture detail → the impulsive aggression towards the text amplifies his misjudgment when the author is revealed ("slapping the magazine")
• Understatement and idiom → Holmes frames his methods as everyday utility, refuting claims of impracticality and asserting superiority ("bread and cheese")
• Self-positioning as unique → his claim of rarity projects intellectual dominance and pride in outclassing others ("only one in the world")
• Methodical listing of clues → establishes credible expertise that justifies his superiority and validates the article Watson mocked ("by a man’s finger nails")
• Curt corrective put-down → the crisp line reads as quiet one-upmanship, implying he relishes overturning Watson’s bet ("You would lose your money")
• Role as fixer of others’ errors → his job is to correct detectives, suggesting habitual dominance rather than a one-off boast ("set them straight")
• Adverb of delivery → the measured tone tempers any sense of gloating; he seems assured more than cruelly triumphant ("remarked calmly")

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

During History Week at your school, the English department invites entries for a creative writing page about travel in another era.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe an overnight train compartment from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a decision made on a long journey.

(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 compartment is a small, travelling chamber of amber hush. Lamplight pools on the wood-panelled wall, making the grain ripple as though something beneath the varnish is still alive. The lamp itself—oval, domesticated—exhales honeyed warmth; shadows fold their elbows in the corners and listen. Outside, the night keeps pace with a cool stare. The train rocks us in a practised, patient cradle, a lullaby sung in metal and distance.

There is an upper berth hinged like a promise, and a lower berth already made: taut linen, squared corners, a blanket rough as a fisherman’s jumper. The brass-polished ladder leans, prim; the leather strap that tethers the window trembles, settles, trembles again. A tray table clicks out; on it sit a teacup with a thin, serious rim and a paper packet of sugar, creased where other thumbs have pressed it. Above, the netted rack holds a suitcase—fat, scuffed—which smells faintly of airports and rain. The bevelled mirror returns my face in the buttery light and, a fraction behind it, the face of someone older who would have ordered hot chocolate without apology.

Each sound is articulated: the wheels spell out a staccato alphabet; the couplings cough; the corridor door inhales and exhales with a rubbery kiss. Footsteps approach in the gangway—measured—then pass, their rhythm bobbing like a buoy. Somewhere a key turns; somewhere a laugh is smothered; somewhere a suitcase sighs down onto a carpet. The train—polite but unstoppable—negotiates a curve, and the wardrobe nudges a fraction toward the wall as though clearing its throat.

Scents accumulate and disentangle. Warm dust. A cautious bloom of soap. A shy drift of tobacco, dry. The polish on the armrest carries a citrus brightness that outlasts its maker, and the air retains the faint, metallic breath of the rails. When I sip the tea, it tastes as railways do: tannic, consoling, a little like rust and quite like resolve.

Beyond the glass, the world arranges itself in brief, operatic scenes: a halt with a single clock, pale as the moon; a siding where sleepers lie like giant dominoes; a platform’s quick-burst of faces, then gone. Darkness returns with ceremony. The window becomes a moving mirror, my lamplit cabin afloat on the black, my palm print blooming, evaporating on the cold pane. Curtains whisper on their rings. Somewhere south of midnight, time loosens; the compartment enlarges into a country in which nothing urgent is required.

And if the morning must come—and of course it must—it will announce itself tentatively: a paling seam along the blind; a cooler air; a new colour for the wood, less amber, more thoughtful. The lamp clicks, a small capitulation. Until then, the compartment holds its breath for us, and we are held, cosseted, described by motion.

Option B:

Night unspooled behind us in ribbons of black tarmac; the coach shouldered south beneath a bruised sky, through the hiss of tyres. Inside, a soft, recycled warmth smelt faintly of coffee, crisps and someone's aftershave; overhead vents whispered; the aisle lights stitched specks into the dark like constellations. Ten hours into the journey and time had congealed; mile markers slid past like slow metronomes. Faces lolled open-mouthed, headphones leaked tinny oceans, a child clutched a toy fox with one missing eye. I drew a circle on the condensation and watched it fill again, watched it vanish; again, again. It felt, absurdly, like a rehearsal for forgetting. It felt like the world asking me—politely, inexorably—to decide.

In the pocket of my coat lay the key Gran had pressed into my palm when I left: brass, ordinary, cold even through the heat of our argument. In my phone, a message sat unsent—Dear Mr Anders, I'm afraid I can't take the placement—its cursor pulsing like a heartbeat. Two futures jostled in the same narrow seat: to go, or to stay. To go meant a flat in a city whose map I had memorised; to stay meant tea rings on Gran's newspaper and the stubborn choreography of ordinary days. What kind of courage leaves, and what kind stays? I could be dutiful. I could be brave. I could pretend they were the same thing.

A sign reared up out of the dark: SERVICES 1 MILE. The driver flicked on the microphone; his voice, surprisingly gentle, crackled through the coach. "Ten-minute stop. Stretch your legs. Last one before London." Around me, people stirred; a woman smoothed her hair reflexively, a man in a suit woke with a start (as if summoned). The bus slid off the motorway and into a pool of sodium light. Plastic letters on the forecourt trembled in the wind. I saw myself in the window, pale and double, layered over the faint lake of night and the haloes of the pumps. For a moment I couldn't tell which way I was facing.

The decision did not arrive with fireworks; it came with the small, municipal click of the stop bell beneath my thumb. That sound—tidy, polite, indisputable—went through me like cold water. I stood. The aisle seemed impossibly long, a runway of sleeping knees and scattered belongings. At the door, the driver glanced up, his eyebrows lifting; I nodded as if he had asked a question. Air met me with its peculiar service-station smell—rain, petrol, fried onions. The bus sighed, then took my decision and made it louder, pulling away with a baritone wheeze. Red tail-lights dwindled; the road resumed its ineluctable business. In the sudden quiet of that liminal stop, my phone lit my hands. "Gran?" I said to the space between breaths. "I'm coming home."

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

Option A:

The compartment feels the size of a held breath. Polished wood panels glow under a small brass lamp, its shade pooling honeyed light over a narrow table and the neat geometry of a timetable. The window is a sheet of ink; it throws back a faint, double version of the room, so that the lamp appears twice, like twin moons suspended in a private sky. Everything seems slightly old-fashioned—buttoned, behaved—yet the train itself hums with a metallic patience.

Sound shapes the space. The rails knit and unknit beneath us: click—clack, click—clack, a measured heartbeat that persuades the glass to tremble. A discreet heater murmurs; the door snicks in its groove; a coat hanger answers with a thin, comic ping. The berth is folded down in a clever ballet of hinges. Starched sheets breathe out a whisper of soap, an institutional purity that fights, gently, with the mineral tang of metal and the darker scent of travel—diesel, dust, damp wool.

Textures invite touch. The blanket, embossed with a fading crest, is rough enough to wake the skin; the curtain is velvet, dense and obliging, swallowing light when you draw it. On the table: a paper cup, a teabag in its envelope, two wrapped biscuits, a modest promise of midnight hospitality. Under the seat a valise waits, obedient; above it a netted rack sags under a coat that smells of rain. In the corner a sink hides behind a shutter; when you slide it up there is the drama of water: sudden, cold, metallic, clean.

Beyond the glass the country passes in strokes—field, hedge, warehouse; then only darkness stitched with sodium haloes, the brief hieroglyph of a signal, the lit squares of someone’s bathroom at an improbable hour. Occasionally your face overlays it all, a pale moon in the window; you look both here and elsewhere. The compartment becomes a capsule of interim time: a room between rooms, a pause carried forward. Secrets seem possible; so do beginnings. Comforting and strange at once. Yet a practical matter persists—where to stow the shoes; how to balance a book in the lamplight.

By and by the rhythm persuades the body to soften. The pillow takes the shape of a thought; the lamp ticks with heat; the corridor sighs as someone passes, then returns to its decorous hush. Outside, towns drift by unseen. Inside, the train keeps its quiet covenant: it will carry you, steadily, through the articulate night; the compartment will hold you, tenderly, until the pale disclosure of morning.

Option B:

Dawn unstitched the night along the rails; a pale seam of light ran across hedgerows and sleeping towns, and the train stitched itself through it, steady, stubborn. My forehead rested on the cool glass and my reflection hovered there—ghostly, uncertain—until a tunnel swallowed it whole. The air smelled faintly of coffee and damp wool. Somewhere behind us, the city sank into yesterday.

I had been travelling since midnight: bus, taxi, and now this persistent ribbon of metal. Outside, fields flowed past in silent paragraphs, each one a sentence I could read but not keep; concurrently, my thoughts blundered forward, tripping over what-ifs. In my rucksack were the artefacts of decision—ticket, envelope, a neat itinerary—yet, more pertinently, there was the thing I had refused to carry openly: fear. The interview was at the last stop, a doorway to a life with polished corridors and glass that gleamed so cleanly you could hardly tell where the sky ended. It sounded impressive on paper. It sounded like somebody else’s voice when I described it out loud.

The carriage was a republic of strangers. A boy in a dinosaur jumper slept with his cheek crushed against his mother’s sleeve; an old man turned a newspaper page with fingers that trembled as if they had forgotten how to be still. Luggage muttered in compartments. Station names—Bristol, Taunton, Tiverton—cascaded from the speakers in a neutral, implacable tone. I wondered if the announcer ever wanted to go somewhere she wasn’t paid to name. I watched a flock of starlings knit itself into a dark ribbon and then unspool. For a moment, I envied them their single mind.

Ahead, the line would split; the points would slide with that small, deliberate clack, and the whole train would lean. It is curious, I thought, how a choice can be built into steel. Up to this point, everything had been arduous but simple: buy a ticket, board, sit, watch. It is always the choosing that hurts. A message waited on my phone (Are you sure? Call me?), and my mother’s last words before I left flared up like a match: “You don’t have to prove anything—least of all to us.”

I stood, more to test my legs than to announce anything brave, and my bag thumped against my knee. The guard passed, nodded, moved on. Decision, I realised, is rarely dramatic; it is a hinge, a quiet pivot you only hear if you are listening. At the next station, I would step out into the cold, climb the footbridge, and cross to the far platform. Not the terminus. Not the polished corridors. Home first—conversation, apology, and then, perhaps, a different kind of courage.

The train shuddered; the world tipped a fraction; somewhere inside me, something aligned.

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

Option A:

The compartment holds its breath. A low amber lamp spreads a small pool of warmth across the wood-panelled walls; the grain looks like a slow river’s map. Outside the window the night slides past, a dark film with sudden sequins of station lights; reflections stutter across the glass. The air smells of warm dust and polish, with a faint thread of tea and diesel; particular, enclosed.

The bunks fold from the wall like tidy secrets. The top one shadows the lower; both are narrow, a little scratchy where the woollen blanket brushes the wrist and a thin blue stripe runs end to end. Above, a netted rack sags beneath a squat suitcase whose leather handle is cracked like an old leaf. Under the window a small sink hides behind a hinged door; when coaxed out it complains—then yields a metallic trickle.

Movement underlines everything. The floor shivers; the carriage sways—back and forth, back and forth—as if remembering a lullaby. From the corridor, footsteps pass and fade; a zipper rasps; someone laughs and stops. Somewhere a key rattles in a latch, and the coupling beneath knocks like a heartbeat, irregular yet reassuring. Then the rails take over again—click-clack, click-clack—writing a steady line beneath it all.

Light behaves differently in here. It sits in corners, amber and steady; it stripes the blanket and the narrow ladder as though there were blinds where there are none. The window fogs and clears with breath, a slow tide; a finger can draw a circle that closes on itself again. Cold leaks from the glass, so the brass latch feels oddly warm; it clicks, reluctant but obedient. There is comfort here, and mild awkwardness: the ladder might nip your ankle; the pillow is modest, though it smells of soap. All night the train steals the miles while this little room stays—held, humming—almost still.

Option B:

Dawn. The track unfurled like a dull ribbon across the pale fields; hedges hunched into themselves, and pylons stood like patient sentinels in the rinsed-out light. The carriage hummed its low, steady note, a metronome for the miles, and the windows stuttered the fields into flickers of green and frost. Somewhere, a loose panel tapped—soft, insistent—like a small clock reminding her that time was moving, whether she wanted it to or not.

Leah leaned her forehead against the glass until the cold pressed through. The air smelt of coffee and damp wool; a suitcase thumped into the rack, a child whispered a secret too quietly to hear. She turned her phone face-up on her knee. Two messages waited. The first, bright and tidy: Interview confirmed: 11.30am, London. We look forward to meeting you. The second, arriving late the night before, was short and blunter: Nan keeps asking for you. It’s getting worse.

Last night, the kitchen had steamed and rattled with the kettle, her mother’s voice soft, exhausted. “It’s your life,” she’d said, hands wrapped round a mug, eyes red from everything and not just onions. “I can’t decide for you. But she knows your name even now.” Leah had stared at the counter where a ring of spilled tea made a thin brown moon. The map on the fridge had London in bold, the coast a smudge of blue. She’d thought she wanted all of it—noise, rush, glass towers—but now it felt like a painting she liked and couldn’t step into.

The train carried on, relentlessly. Fields unravelled, then warehouses, then a sudden slice of river that flashed like a blade. An announcement cracked through the carriage, crisp and ordinary: “Next stop, Grantham.” If she got off there, she could turn back north, catch the local line, be at the hospital before visiting hours ended. If she stayed, the city would open like a promise—new job, rent she couldn’t quite afford, the brisk satisfaction of saying she’d done it.

Leah’s ticket trembled as the train slowed; brakes sang, a surprised squeal. She didn’t really know what she exactly wanted. But she knew what she couldn’t bear to regret.

She stood.

The button by the door glowed green; her finger hovered, then pressed. The doors sighed apart, and cold morning air rushed in—sharp, honest—as the decision stepped with her onto the platform.

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

Option A:

The compartment is a narrow room folded into the train’s side, wood-panelled and softly lit. The little lamp grows a puddle of amber on the table; it warms the varnish until the panels look like syrup. The window frames a long stripe of night where lights pass in calm bursts, then fade. Curtains tremble with each sway. A chrome handle shines, touched by so many hands, and the thin ladder waits at the end of the bed like a patient stick. It is snug rather than small, close but kind.

Everything has a rhythm here, a steady clack-clack beneath the bones. The mattress breathes with the rails; the cup on the saucer quivers and settles—then quivers again. The air smells of polish and dust, with a colder thread of metal and oil in it. The blanket is scratchy but reassuring, and the pillow gives off a faint, borrowed scent, almost floral, as if it remembers somebody else’s night.

Outside the thin door, the corridor becomes a whispering stream: footsteps, a muted laugh, a key that tries the lock and moves on. The door rattles lightly in its frame; the latch clicks like a tongue. Shadows climb the corners and kneel under the table. I watch the glass as it turns into a moving mirror, my face layered over hedges and signals. The world skims sideways and I feel both still and travelling.

Time does something peculiar in this compartment. Minutes stretch, then fold back, as if the night were elastic. The lamp behaves politely, refusing to flicker, while the countryside flickers for it. I rest my palm on the wall and feel the train’s heart, patient and persistent. It is cosy, and a little claustrophobic; a pocket of private space stitched into speed. I settle, not quite asleep yet, listening to the clack-clack and the quiet between it.

Option B:

Night. The road unrolled ahead, long and patient; white lines blinked under the coach like tired eyes. Rain stitched the glass and the wipers dragged it away like a nervous habit. I rested my forehead on the window. The engine hummed a low note I could feel in my ribs, a reminder that we were moving.

In the seat pocket lay the interview letter, its sharp edge nibbling my fingers. On my phone, a message from my brother sat unopened for an hour before I dared read it: Mum's not good. Call me. The words were short, clipped, but the meaning grew until it filled the aisle. I thought of the kitchen light left on, of her voice on Thursday, brave but thin.

The heater breathed out warm, stale air; someone's coffee smelt burnt. My bag felt heavy with clothes I wasn't sure I needed. I tried to rehearse answers, to picture the glass and the polite smile, my name spoken in an office that didn't know me yet. But the window pulled my eyes, and the road kept asking its quiet question: which way will you be when morning comes?

We slowed for a service station. Fluorescent lights hovered like cautious moons. The sign said Welcome, but it looked like a warning. One choice: stay on and chase the job I had wanted for months; or step off, call my brother, and begin retracing the miles. My hands shook. I could almost hear Mum's cough through the glass, thin as paper and just as fragile.

The bell above the driver's head glowed. My thumb had already pressed it. I stood, knees unsteady, as the coach sighed to a stop. Outside, the rain had eased. Inside me, something resolved—not easy, but real. I lifted my bag and stepped into the aisle.

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

Option A:

The lamplight pools like honey on the wood-panelled walls, making the tiny compartment feel warmer than it is. The bunk is narrow; a scratchy blanket is folded like a letter and a pillow waits with a thin, polite puff. A silver ladder rattles whenever the train leans. On the little table a paper cup trembles; a brown tea ring keeps returning. Beyond the window, night presses flat, shiny as tar; the curtain breathes with the draught.

The track speaks—click-clack, click-clack—steady as a slow clock under your ribs. A radiator ticks politely; the air smells of polish and old linen, with a shy drift of diesel. The fold-down sink winks; the mirror has a thumb-smudge that turns faces cloudy. A timetable is pinned by the bed: tiny squares, tiny names, as if the journey could be kept neat.

Meanwhile, in the corridor, a soft step passes, a cough, keys murmuring. A strip of flourescent light leaks under the door. The chain lies across the latch like a thin necklace—light, but pretending to guard. I sit on the lower bunk and the mattress sighs, it remembers other nights. Condensation pebbles the glass; when I touch it, stars smear and slide.

Time moves strangely on a night train: quick and slow at once. The lamp flickers once—twice—and settles. Sleep feels close but also far, like a station you keep missing. Where are we now, under what sleeping town? Outside the dark fields roll on and on; inside, the compartment rocks, gentle, insistent, almost a lullaby.

Option B:

Night. The coach sighed from the station, windows fogged with breath, rain stitching silver lines across the glass. Streetlights slid backwards like falling stars; the city thinned to warehouses, then fields. I hugged my backpack as if it was a lifejacket.

It was a long journey to the coast, six hours, maybe more. Plenty of time to decide. Mum’s last message sat on my phone: Come home. We can talk. On the route map names slid past—Ashford, Fernley—and the choice slid too. I could stay on, or press the bell and go back. Was I brave, or just running? We said things we shouldn’t; I slammed the door. My pocket held two things: a return ticket and the tiny key for Dad’s flat. Both felt heavy.

After a while the darkness broke into fields and a sign for Junction 12. My thumb hovered over the red button. I told myself to choose; waiting was also choosing. So I did. I pressed—a soft click—and the bell rang through the coach. People looked up, nobody said anything. I stood—knees jelly—backpack on. Maybe I was turning back, maybe I was turning toward something; either way, the decision was mine.

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

Option A:

The compartment is narrow and neat. Wooden panels glow under a small lamp; it makes a pool of butter-yellow light on the little table. The bed folds from the wall with a soft sigh. A thin ladder leans, a silver bone. There is a sink, a mirror that trembles when the wheels do. It is not big, you can stand with your arms almost touching the walls. The curtain is thick and red, it drags slightly on the rail and smells faintly of polish.

Outside the glass, night slides past like ink poured over paper. Now and then, a town blinks: a row of flourescent windows, a sign, then gone again. The window breathes with my breath, fogging, clearing, fogging. The carriage hums and rattles, click-clack, click-clack, the sound runs under everything. There is tea on the table and it shakes in its cup, small rings dancing. I can taste metal and dust, and also something warm, like toast or old wood.

Later, the corridor outside whisper and cough with late footsteps. I pull the blanket higher: it is thin but honest. The sheets are a little scratchy. The lamp is steady—like a small moon—warm on my face. The train keeps going, keeps going, its rhythm is patient, and eventually, so am I.

Option B:

Night. The coach crawled along the motorway like a tired animal; orange lamps drifted past like small moons. Rain ticked at the glass and the windows hummed with the engine. This journey felt endless, a ribbon of dark fields and rare lights.

I rolled my ticket between my fingers until the edges went soft. Mum's last text blinked: "You can still change your mind." Dad hadn't messaged—he never did now. The heater breathed dusty air; the aisle smelled of coffee and crisps. I had two choices: keep going to the city and the new room, or get off at the next stop and go back.

At midnight the coach paused at a service station. Doors hissed; cold air and neon slid inside. A sign said Northbound. I could stand now, lift my rucksack, step into the bright shop, phone a taxi home. It would be easy, it would be safe, it would be the same.

Instead, I stayed where I was, heart beating like a small drum. My thumb hovered, then I typed: "I'm going on." I pressed send; the message went like a tiny flare into the dark. The doors closed; the road pulled us on. I breathed out.

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

Option A:

The small lamp glows yellow on the wood walls and the bunk. Its small in here and the shadows looks long and weird. The blanket is rough, it scratches my arm, the pillow is thin. The air is warm and dusty, like old books, and there is a quiet hum in the floor. The train goes click clack, click clack, back and forth, back and forth. The window is a black square and the glass is cold. I can see my face in it, and the light makes it pale.

How can I sleep when the whole room sways?

The door shakes a little and the handle rattles, the corridor is quiet - then a footstep. The lamp is tired and it flickers like a tired eye. I think of morning but it is far. I don’t talk, I just listen. The bed don't stop moving, it is like a small boat on slow water.

Option B:

Summer. The bus is old. The windows stick and the air feels hot. Outside the road goes on and on like a ribbon that never stops. I grip my ticket. The stop is far, but there is a town before it.

Mum says come back. The job is in the city. I am small in this seat with my heavy bag. I smell crisps. I draw a circle on the wet window and rub it away. I think and think. Do I go all the way or get off early?

A green sign jumps out. J12. My heart starts banging like shoes. I stand to press the bell then I sit again, my legs wont move. Stop, I tell myself. Stop messing about. I can not live in the middle forever. I press the bell. The bus keeps rolling and I feel it, the choice settling like a stone.

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

Option A:

The compartment is small and warm. Brown wood on the walls and a lamp that glows yellow. The bed is thin, the sheet scratchy. The window shows black night, my face floats there. Lights go by then gone. The train hums and bumps, it goes back and forward, back and forward. I smell dust and old tea and metal. A little table with a cup, it rattles. I want to sleep but i cant, the light is near. Someone cough outside, maybe the guard. I think about toast in the morning for no reason. Night feels big!

Option B:

The bus goes on and on for miles and I am tired. I look out the window and see fields and lines, the sky is pale. My bag is on my knees. I have to make a decision, I dont want to but its there. Do I go back or keep going. My phone is warm in my hand. A child drops crisps and they roll, the driver coughs. I think about Mum and the house and the dog and how quiet it was. The seat shakes like a train. My thumb hovers, I say okay, fine, do it, and I press call.