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 were the hours of the narrator’s watch on deck?: from eight to twelve – 1 mark
• 1.2 At around ten o'clock, what does the narrator do?: Steps briefly onto the main-deck – 1 mark
• 1.3 Where was the mate?: on the poop – 1 mark
• 1.4 About what time did the narrator step down?: about ten – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 134 of the source:

6 The carpenter’s bench stood abaft the mainmast: I leaned against it sucking at my pipe, and the carpenter, a young chap, came to talk to me. He remarked, ‘I think we have done very well, haven’t we?’

11 and then I perceived with annoyance the fool was trying to tilt the bench. I said curtly, ‘Don’t, Chips,’ and immediately became aware of a queer sensation, of an absurd delusion,--I

16 seemed somehow to be in the air. I heard all round me like a pent-up breath released--as if a thousand giants simultaneously had said Phoo!--and felt a dull

21 concussion which made my ribs ache suddenly. No doubt about it--I was in the air, and my body was describing a short parabola. But short as it was, I had the time to think several thoughts in, as far as I can

26 remember, the following order: ‘This can’t be the carpenter--What is it?--Some accident-- Submarine volcano?--Coals, gas!--By Jove! we are being blown up--Everybody’s

31 dead--I am falling into the after-hatch--I see fire in it.’ “The coal-dust suspended in the air of the hold had glowed dull-red at the

36 moment of the explosion. In the twinkling of an eye, in an infinitesimal fraction of a second since the first tilt of the bench, I was sprawling full length on the cargo. I picked myself up and scrambled

41 out. It was quick like a rebound. The deck was a wilderness of smashed timber, lying crosswise like trees in a wood after a hurricane; an immense curtain of soiled rags waved

46 gently before me--it was the mainsail blown to strips. I thought, The masts will be toppling over directly; and to get out of the way bolted on all-fours towards the

51 poop-ladder. The first person I saw was Mahon, with eyes like saucers, his mouth open, and the long white hair standing straight on end round his head like a silver halo. He was just about to go down when the

56 sight of the main-deck stirring, heaving up, and changing into splinters before his eyes, petrified him on the top step. I stared at him in unbelief, and he

61 stared at me with a queer kind of shocked curiosity. I did not know that I had no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, that my young moustache was burnt off, that my face was black, one cheek laid

66 open, my nose cut, and my chin bleeding. I had lost my cap, one of my slippers, and my shirt was torn to rags. Of all this I was not aware. I was amazed to see the ship still afloat,

71 the poop-deck whole--and, most of all, to see anybody alive. Also the peace of the sky and the serenity of the sea were distinctly surprising. I suppose I expected to see them

76 convulsed with horror.... Pass the bottle. “There was a voice hailing the ship from somewhere--in the air, in the sky--I couldn’t tell. Presently I saw the captain--and he was mad. He

81 asked me eagerly, ‘Where’s the cabin-table?’ and to hear such a question was a frightful shock. I had just been blown up, you understand, and vibrated with

86 that experience,--I wasn’t quite sure whether I was alive. Mahon began to stamp with both feet and yelled at him, ‘Good God! don’t you see the deck’s blown out of her?’ I found my voice, and stammered

91 out as if conscious of some gross neglect of duty, ‘I don’t know where the cabin-table is.’ It was like an absurd dream.

96 “Do you know what he wanted next? Well, he wanted to trim the yards. Very placidly, and as if lost in thought, he insisted on having the foreyard squared. ‘I don’t know if there’s anybody alive,’ said Mahon,

101 almost tearfully. ‘Surely,’ he said gently, ‘there will be enough left to square the foreyard.’

106 “The old chap, it seems, was in his own berth, winding up the chronometers, when the shock sent him spinning. Immediately it occurred to him--as he said afterwards--that the ship had struck something, and

111 he ran out into the cabin. There, he saw, the cabin-table had vanished somewhere. The deck being blown up, it had fallen down into the lazarette of course. Where we had our

116 breakfast that morning he saw only a great hole in the floor. This appeared to him so awfully mysterious, and impressed him so immensely, that what he saw and heard after he got

121 on deck were mere trifles in comparison. And, mark, he noticed directly the wheel deserted and his barque off her course--and his only thought was to get that miserable, stripped, undecked, smouldering shell

126 of a ship back again with her head pointing at her port of destination. Bankok! That’s what he was after. I tell you this quiet, bowed, bandy-legged, almost deformed little man was immense in the singleness

131 of his idea and in his placid ignorance of our agitation. He motioned us forward with a commanding gesture, and went to take the wheel himself.

How does the writer use language here to present the narrator’s situation and attitude on deck? 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 perceptively analyse how violent sensory imagery and fractured syntax present the narrator’s disorientation: the explosive simile 'like a pent-up breath released' with onomatopoeic 'Phoo!', the hyperbole 'a thousand giants', and the cool, technical precision of 'my body was describing a short parabola' sit within rapid, dash-fractured thought-questions ('This can’t be the carpenter', 'By Jove! we are being blown up'), while metaphors like 'a wilderness of smashed timber' and 'an immense curtain of soiled rags', plus the short clause 'It was quick like a rebound', render devastation and pace. It would also trace a sardonic, incredulous attitude through ironic contrast and asides—expecting sea and sky 'convulsed with horror', the flippant 'Pass the bottle.', and the bathos of 'Where’s the cabin-table?' and 'placidly' trimming yards—culminating in evaluative irony as the captain is called 'immense in the singleness of his idea', balancing critique with grudging respect.

The writer uses explosive auditory imagery and simile to catapult us into crisis. The blast is "like a pent-up breath released," "as if a thousand giants ... said ‘Phoo!’": the onomatopoeic exhalation and hyperbole magnify force that hurls him "in the air." Yet the technical metaphor "a short parabola" and the calm clause "I had the time to think" suggest composure within chaos. Dynamic verbs—"sprawling," "scrambled," "bolted on all-fours"—reduce him to instinct as the deck becomes a "wilderness of smashed timber ... like trees ... after a hurricane."

Furthermore, sentence form and listing dramatise shock and dissociation. The dash-spliced, stream-of-consciousness questions ("This can’t be... Submarine volcano?... Coals, gas!") mimic racing thought, while the asyndetic tricolon "no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes" and anaphora "I had..." catalogue injuries he is "not aware" of, implying numb detachment. Juxtaposing wreckage with "the peace of the sky and the serenity of the sea" resists pathetic fallacy, and the wry aside "Pass the bottle" creates bathos, revealing a sardonic resilience in his on-deck attitude.

Additionally, personification and character detail sharpen the surreal scene. The "main-deck stirring, heaving up, and changing into splinters" animates the ship as a living force, while Mahon’s "eyes like saucers" and hair "like a silver halo" blend terror with absurdity, echoing the narrator’s incredulity. Antithesis shapes attitude: from "he was mad" to "immense in the singleness of his idea." The intensifying list "miserable, stripped, undecked, smouldering shell" foregrounds peril, yet his deferential stammer about the "cabin-table" betrays ingrained duty.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would typically identify vivid imagery and similes presenting chaos on deck, such as like a pent-up breath released and a wilderness of smashed timber, and explain how the rapid, dashed list of questions (e.g., This can’t be... By Jove! we are being blown up) and some short sentences convey the narrator’s shock and confusion. It would also note his detached, ironic attitude through understatement—It was like an absurd dream—and the contrast with the captain’s calm, signalled by Very placidly, which heightens the narrator’s disbelief.

The writer uses vivid sensory imagery and simile to plunge us into the narrator’s upheaval. “Pent-up breath released—as if a thousand giants… said ‘Phoo!’” combines hyperbolic simile with onomatopoeia to convey the blast and his sudden helplessness “in the air.” The technical lexis “parabola” contrasts with “queer sensation,” suggesting an instinct to analyse even while he is blown up.

Moreover, violent imagery builds the wrecked situation and his shock. The deck becomes “a wilderness of smashed timber,” with a simile “like trees… after a hurricane,” amplifying devastation. The sail is “an immense curtain of soiled rags,” a metaphor that reduces the ship’s power to tatters. Dynamic verbs—“scrambled,” “bolted on all-fours”—show panic, while the asyndetic list of injuries, “no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes… my face was black,” reveals numb unawareness.

Additionally, sentence forms and contrast expose his dazed yet dutiful attitude. The dash-linked internal monologue—“This can’t be the carpenter—What is it?—Some accident—Submarine volcano?—Coals, gas!”—mimics racing thoughts; the short declarative “I was amazed” and the personification of the sea and sky as “convulsed with horror” highlight his disbelief. The understated aside “Pass the bottle” makes the chaos feel “like an absurd dream,” suggesting shock laced with professional composure.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 answer would spot similes and descriptive words, e.g. “like a pent-up breath released,” “as if a thousand giants,” “a wilderness of smashed timber,” and “eyes like saucers,” plus adjectives like “soiled” and “smouldering,” to show the chaotic deck and the narrator’s shock and fear. It would also mention sentence forms such as the short, fast line “It was quick like a rebound” and the rushed questions “This can’t be... What is it?... Submarine volcano?,” saying these show his confusion, and might note the contrast with “peace of the sky” to show disbelief.

The writer uses similes to show the sudden blast and confusion. He hears it “like a pent-up breath released” and “as if a thousand giants… said Phoo!”, which makes the explosion feel huge. The phrase “queer sensation” and “seemed… in the air” present his shock.

Moreover, the deck is described with a simile: “a wilderness of smashed timber”, and “like trees… after a hurricane”. This vivid image shows destruction. Personification in “the main-deck stirring, heaving up” makes the ship seem alive and threatening. Strong verbs, “scrambled” and “bolted”, show his panic.

Furthermore, sentence forms reflect his state. The list “This can’t be… Coals, gas!... Everybody’s dead” and the exclamation “By Jove!” show panic. The injuries he “did not know” and “like an absurd dream” suggest he is dazed. Therefore the language presents chaos and his stunned attitude on deck.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might spot simple techniques, saying the writer uses similes like "wilderness of smashed timber", "like trees in a wood after a hurricane" and "eyes like saucers" to show chaos and shock, and words such as "queer sensation" to show the narrator feels strange. It might also notice short, quick sentences and lists like "It was quick like a rebound" and "What is it?--Some accident--" to make it seem fast and panicky, and phrases like "I wasn’t quite sure whether I was alive" to show his confusion.

The writer uses similes to show the narrator’s situation. The simile “as if a thousand giants… said Phoo!” shows a loud noise and makes it seem powerful. This makes the narrator feel shocked. Moreover, the simile “like trees in a wood after a hurricane” shows the deck is messy and broken, so the situation is chaotic. Furthermore, the writer uses emotive words like “amazed” and “absurd dream” to show his confused attitude. Also, the list of thoughts “This can’t be…” shows panic. This makes the reader see he is overwhelmed on deck.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Juxtaposition from mundane routine to crisis amplifies shock; calm, ordinary action makes the sudden chaos more jarring (sucking at my pipe)
• Explosive simile and onomatopoeia convey overwhelming force and a surreal, comic-violent scale (a thousand giants)
• Precise, scientific diction shows cool self-observation and detachment even amid catastrophe (short parabola)
• Rapid, dash-linked inner monologue captures panic and grim humour as he races through possibilities (Everybody’s dead)
• Comic-grotesque simile frames a crewmate’s terror while sustaining the narrator’s wry, observational tone (eyes like saucers)
• Understated self-description and cumulative listing suggest numb shock and disconnection from bodily harm (I did not know)
• Contrast between tranquil nature and wrecked deck intensifies the uncanny isolation of the disaster (serenity of the sea)
• Colloquial aside injects gallows humour, revealing a stoic, almost flippant coping voice (Pass the bottle)
• Dialogue spotlights absurd priorities and heightens disbelief, turning chaos into dreamlike farce (Where’s the cabin-table?)
• Characterisation balances admiration and critique, respecting resolve while noting emotional blindness (placid ignorance)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how chaos unfolds from beginning to end
• 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: Level 4 responses perceptively trace the structural arc from routine time-markers and calm normality (Next day, About ten, At breakfast) to the explosive turning point (I seemed somehow to be in the air), explaining how pace accelerates via dash-fractured, staccato interior listing (Submarine volcano?, Everybody’s dead) and time-compression (in the twinkling of an eye), as focus widens from the body to a panorama (wilderness of smashed timber). They analyse destabilising shifts in perspective and tone—juxtaposing devastation with the peace of the sky and the captain’s incongruously methodical aims (Where’s the cabin-table?, square the foreyard, Bankok!)—to show how structure sustains a pervasive sense of chaos.

One way the writer structures chaos is by collapsing order set up through precise temporal markers. We move from the routine 'Next day ... eight to twelve' and 'About ten' to an 'immediately' vertiginous rupture: 'I was in the air.' Pace is manipulated: 'In the twinkling of an eye' compresses time, while the interpolated, dash-framed list of thoughts—'in the following order'—uses parataxis and fragmentation to mimic a mind splintering under shock. Even the captain’s earlier remark that a 'smell hangs about' works as foreshadowing, a fragile thread through the disorder.

In addition, shifts in focus create a montage of disruption. The narrative cuts from 'sprawling' on the cargo to a 'wilderness of smashed timber' and a 'curtain of soiled rags', then to Mahon 'with eyes like saucers', before belatedly disclosing the narrator’s injuries he 'did not know' about. This delayed revelation and oscillation between macro (the ship) and micro (body) details disorient the reader. The juxtaposition of ruin with the 'peace of the sky' and 'serenity of the sea' heightens the chaotic unreality.

A further structural strategy is to disrupt the frame through dialogue and analepsis. The aside 'Pass the bottle' breaks the flow, while incongruous interjections—'Where’s the cabin-table?' and orders to 'square the foreyard'—puncture description with absurd priorities. The perspective then shifts analeptically to the captain’s experience 'in his own berth', a summary that explains yet intensifies chaos by showing leadership at cross-purposes with the crew. This oscillation between immediate crisis and retrospective rationale sustains a stop–start, chaotic rhythm.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A clear Level 3 response would explain how the writer shifts from routine to crisis, moving from At breakfast the captain observed to I was in the air, using rapid time markers like In the twinkling of an eye and a fragmented thought-list This can’t be the carpenter--...--Everybody’s dead to quicken pace and mirror the chaos, and contrasting calm surroundings the peace of the sky with wreckage a wilderness of smashed timber. It would also note a structural move into disorientating dialogue and perspective, such as the captain’s incongruous Where’s the cabin-table?, to prolong confusion and show different reactions to the disaster.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create chaos is by moving from routine to rupture, changing the pace. Temporal markers (“Next day”, “About ten”) set order, then a sudden explosion breaks it: “I was in the air.” The narrator’s list of short, dash‑separated thoughts—“Some accident—Submarine volcano?—Coals, gas!”—accelerates the rhythm and mimics scrambled, panicked thinking.

In addition, the focus shifts from his inner sensations to the devastated setting, layering the disorder. After the “rebound,” we get a chaotic tableau: “wilderness of smashed timber,” “mainsail blown to strips,” and bodies frozen (“Mahon… like a silver halo”). This is then contrasted with “the peace of the sky and the serenity of the sea,” a contrast that heightens the sense of upheaval.

A further structural choice is the disruptive use of dialogue and a flashback to the captain’s actions. Absurd imperatives—“Where’s the cabin-table?”, “trim the yards”—interrupt the aftermath, adding dissonance. The narrative then shifts focus to the captain “winding up the chronometers,” explaining his skewed priorities. This movement between perspectives within a sustained first-person narrative, plus the ellipsis (“Pass the bottle.”), keeps the reader off-balance before a return to control as he “went to take the wheel.”

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might identify that the writer moves from calm routine (At breakfast) to instant disaster (In the twinkling of an eye), with a rushed list where he can think several thoughts to speed the pace and show confusion. The focus then shifts from wreckage (The deck was a wilderness of smashed timber) to chaotic dialogue like Where’s the cabin-table? and the captain’s single-minded Bankok!, so the changing focus and speech make the chaos feel overwhelming.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create chaos is a sudden change in pace. At the beginning we get routine time markers, "Next day... about ten." Then, "in the twinkling of an eye" the explosion happens. This shift from calm to fast action shocks the reader.

In addition, the first-person narrator lists his thoughts in order, separated by dashes: "This can’t be... What is it?... we are being blown up." This fragmented sequence and short sentences show a muddled mind, creating confusion and making the chaos feel immediate.

A further structural feature is the shift to other people and contrasting tone. Mahon yells while the captain calmly asks, "Where’s the cabin-table?" and wants to "trim the yards." This change in perspective and the odd questions increase disorder, as reactions clash even at the end of the extract.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies a simple structural shift from calm routine to sudden chaos, e.g., from "At breakfast" to "I was in the air". Selects obvious moments like "wilderness of smashed timber" and the confused line "Where’s the cabin-table?" to say this creates a chaotic, shocked feeling.

One way the writer creates chaos is by starting calm, then an explosion. We go from breakfast to “in the air” and a “concussion”. This sudden change of pace and short sentences make it feel chaotic.

In addition, time words and listing show confusion. “Next day” and “About ten” move us on, then “in the twinkling of an eye” speeds it up, and the thought list makes it messy.

A further feature is a change of focus. The focus moves from the narrator to the captain’s dialogue about the table and yards. The switch adds to the chaos.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Ordinary routine opening and subdued foreshadowing via smell → sets a calm baseline so later disorder feels explosive (smell hangs about)
• Abrupt shift from idle chat to physical upheaval (bench tilts → narrator airborne) → sudden disruption in narrative flow mirrors chaos (I was in the air)
• Enumerated stream of thoughts mid-flight → time dilates and thinking fragments, enacting chaotic cognition (Everybody’s dead)
• Compressed and expanded pacing through temporal markers → whiplash rhythm intensifies chaos (In the twinkling)
• Rapid spatial reorientation (bench → hatch → ladder) → unstable viewpoint disorients the reader like the scene (after-hatch)
• Shift from internal sensations to wide-shot wreckage → scales up the disorder visually (wilderness of smashed timber)
• Stark juxtaposition of devastation with serene nature → surreal contrast amplifies the sense of chaos (peace of the sky)
• Fracturing aside and ellipsis interrupt the tale → broken narration reflects shock and disarray (Pass the bottle.)
• Intrusive, incongruous dialogue focus (captain’s table/yards) amid crisis → conflicting priorities create structural irony and turmoil (Where’s the cabin-table?)
• Retrospective insert of captain’s misreading leading to single-minded destination push → backtracking and obsession keep order at odds with chaos (Bankok!)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 76 to the end.

In this part of the source, the captain's reaction seems absurd when he asks about the cabin-table. The writer suggests that this strange focus is actually a sign of his strength as a leader.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the captain's reaction and his leadership
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the captain's strength
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that, to a large extent, the writer reframes the captain’s seemingly absurd fixation on 'Where’s the cabin-table?' as a marker of resilient leadership. By juxtaposing the narrator’s 'absurd dream' and Mahon’s panic with the captain’s 'placidly' reasoned insistence on the 'foreyard squared,' his swift notice of the 'wheel deserted'/'off her course,' and his being 'immense in the 'singleness of his idea'—signalled by a 'commanding gesture' and going to 'take the wheel' for 'Bankok!'—the writer suggests calm focus amid catastrophe is strength rather than folly.

I largely agree that the captain’s question about the “cabin-table” seems absurd at first, but the writer recasts this strange focus as evidence of formidable leadership. Initially, the narrative foregrounds shock and disorientation: the narrator, “convulsed with horror,” explains, “I had just been blown up… I wasn’t quite sure whether I was alive,” a breathless clause-and-dash structure that conveys traumatised consciousness. Against this, the captain’s eager, almost trivial enquiry—“Where’s the cabin-table?”—reads as comic bathos. The phrase “It was like an absurd dream” explicitly codes our response; the juxtaposition of a domestic fixture with catastrophic damage produces a “frightful shock” of proportion, inviting us to judge him “mad.”

However, the writer quickly reframes this “madness” as disciplined seamanship. Through sharply contrasted direct speech, Mahon “stamp[s] with both feet” and cries, “Good God!” while the captain “very placidly” insists on routine: “trim the yards” and “have the foreyard squared.” The adverbs “placidly” and “gently” set a tonal counterpoint to the crew’s near-tearful panic (“I don’t know if there’s anybody alive”), suggesting stoic self-command. Procedural imperatives function as a method of imposing order; by returning the ship to seamanlike tasks, he recalibrates the crew’s focus. Structurally, this pivots the scene from chaos to control, culminating in decisive action: he “motioned us forward with a commanding gesture, and went to take the wheel himself.” That assumption of responsibility embodies leadership rather than eccentricity.

The analepsis explaining his perspective further dignifies his apparent absurdity. “Winding up the chronometers” signals meticulous habit; then the vanished table—“where we had our breakfast that morning”—becomes a symbol of ruptured normality. Its disappearance is “awfully mysterious” to him, a concrete index of disaster that galvanises his resolve. The lexical field of ruin—“miserable, stripped, undecked, smouldering shell”—is set against his unwavering objective: “his barque off her course,” therefore “Bankok! That’s what he was after.” The exclamatory repetition crystallises “the singleness of his idea.” Ironically, the “quiet, bowed, bandy-legged, almost deformed little man” is described as “immense,” an antithesis that credits inner authority over outward stature. Even his “placid ignorance of our agitation” reads less as insensitivity than as functional tunnel vision under pressure.

One might argue that such focus risks overlooking immediate human cost, yet the writer’s evaluative commentary—“immense in the singleness of his idea”—endorses it as strength. Overall, the scene’s progression from bathos to command convinces me that what initially seems absurd is the very mechanism by which the captain reasserts order; the strange focus becomes the mark of a leader.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: Level 3: A response would mostly agree, explaining that although the captain’s fixation on "Where’s the cabin-table?" seems "mad" and "like an absurd dream", the writer uses contrast and irony to recast it as purposeful leadership—his drive to reach "Bankok!", being "immense in the singleness of his idea", calmly ordering the "foreyard squared", noticing the "wheel deserted", and taking charge ("went to take the wheel himself").

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, the captain’s reaction does seem absurd. In the immediate aftermath of the explosion, the narrator’s simile “It was like an absurd dream” captures the surreal shock, and the rhetorical question “Do you know what he wanted next?” invites our disbelief. Dialogue intensifies the contrast: Mahon’s exclamatory “Good God! don’t you see the deck’s blown out of her?” highlights the crew’s panic, making “Where’s the cabin-table?” sound grotesquely trivial. The disorientating description of a voice “in the air, in the sky” further sets a chaotic context in which the captain’s focus appears misplaced.

However, the writer then reframes this odd fixation as evidence of leadership. The captain’s calm adverbs—“very placidly” and “gently”—suggest emotional control, a key leadership trait. His insistence on “trim[ming] the yards” and “squar[ing] the foreyard” uses the semantic field of seamanship to show he is restoring order through routine. Structurally, the analepsis (“as he said afterwards”) explains his thought process: he was “winding up the chronometers,” a duty-bound image, and, thinking the ship had “struck something,” the vanished table seemed “awfully mysterious.” This rationale turns the “absurd” into a method of coping—focusing on the manageable to steady the crew.

The writer’s contrasts and listing also elevate him. Against the “miserable, stripped, undecked, smouldering shell of a ship,” the exclamatory minor sentence “Bankok!” and the abstract noun phrase “the singleness of his idea” present unwavering purpose. Physically “quiet, bowed, bandy-legged,” he is paradoxically “immense,” a deliberate juxtaposition that celebrates inner authority. Finally, decisive verbs—he “motioned us forward” and “went to take the wheel himself”—show practical command, not detachment.

Overall, while his questions initially read as absurd, the writer strongly guides us to see this strange focus as disciplined composure. I agree to a large extent that it signals his strength as a leader, though his “placid ignorance of our agitation” hints at a potential blind spot.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would typically note that the captain’s reaction seems absurd, pointing to Where’s the cabin-table? and the wish to square the foreyard, but partly agree that this shows strength because he stays fixed on Bankok! and acts with a commanding gesture. It would make a simple methods point, e.g., saying the writer contrasts panic with calm focus using the phrase immense in the singleness of his idea to suggest determined leadership.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, the captain’s question about the “cabin-table” does feel absurd. The narrator has “just been blown up” and says it was “like an absurd dream,” which is a simile that makes the captain sound out of touch. The crew’s reaction shows panic: Mahon “began to stamp” and “yelled,” even speaking “almost tearfully.” These strong verbs and adverbs create chaos, so the captain’s eager question gives a “frightful shock” and he seems “mad.”

However, the writer then presents this focus as leadership. The captain speaks “placidly” and “gently,” and the verb “insisted” suggests calm control. He asks to “trim the yards” and “square the foreyard,” which are practical tasks to steady the ship. Structurally, the narrative shifts from confusion to a clear aim: he notices the “wheel deserted” and the barque “off her course,” and wants her “back again with her head pointing at her port of destination. Bankok!” The short exclamation “Bankok!” shows his single goal.

The description contrasts his body and character. He is “quiet, bowed, bandy-legged,” yet the narrator calls him “immense in the singleness of his idea.” This contrast shows inner strength. He also leads by example: with a “commanding gesture” he sends the men forward and goes “to take the wheel himself.”

Overall, while the focus on the table seems bizarre, I agree to a large extent that the writer turns that strangeness into proof of strong leadership through calm words, firm actions, and a fixed destination.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree a little: asking about the 'cabin-table' and being called 'mad' makes him seem absurd. But the writer shows his strength by noting he is 'Very placidly' focused, goes to 'take the wheel himself', and still aims for 'Bankok!'

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, the captain’s reaction does seem absurd. Right after they are “blown up,” he asks, “Where’s the cabin-table?” which feels silly in a crisis. The narrator even says, “It was like an absurd dream,” which is a simile to show how strange this is. Mahon shouts, “don’t you see the deck’s blown out of her?” so the contrast makes the captain look out of touch.

However, the writer also suggests this odd focus is part of his strength. Words like “placidly” and “gently” (adjectives) show he stays calm. Through direct speech about sailing, “trim the yards” and “square the foreyard,” he keeps everyone thinking about the ship, not panic. He notices “the wheel deserted” and only wants the ship “back again with her head pointing” to “Bankok!” The narrator praises him as “immense in the singleness of his idea,” which makes him sound determined. Finally, the “commanding gesture” and that he “went to take the wheel himself” show leadership in action.

Overall, I agree that his focus seems absurd at first, but the writer presents it as calm control, which makes him a strong leader in a disaster.

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:

• Framing: the narrator’s surreal shock invites initial scepticism; later narration reframes the absurdity as purposeful leadership, so I largely agree (like an absurd dream)
• Contrast of catastrophe with a trivial-sounding query intensifies absurdity yet spotlights his drive to impose order; the fixation arises from the vanished table and the yawning hole, not mere folly (Where’s the cabin-table?)
• Irony steers judgment: the narrator’s label primes us to doubt, but subsequent detail recasts “madness” as clarity of purpose (he was mad)
• Calm tonal choices project poise under pressure, persuading us that steadiness—rather than panic—is his strength (Very placidly)
• Procedural focus on seamanship restores function amid wreckage; practical orders over spectacle suggest effective command (foreyard squared)
• Decisive noticing and personal assumption of responsibility embody leadership in action, not words (went to take the wheel)
• Goal fixation unifies effort and resolve; the terse destination cry frames his singleness of purpose as galvanising, if potentially blinkered (Bankok!)
• Character contrast heightens impact: others’ panic makes his composure read as authority rather than absurdity (almost tearfully)
• Paradox of slight physique versus colossal will valorises inner resolve, aligning the “absurd” focus with commanding vision (immense in the singleness)
• Caveat: his detachment steadies but can seem unfeeling; strength of focus may overlook crew distress (placid ignorance of our agitation)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A vocational college is displaying creative writing that celebrates skilled, hands-on work.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a vehicle repair garage from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about fixing something that seems beyond repair.

(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 strip-lights stutter; a blink, a tremor — then the bay is scrubbed in a cold, exacting white that refuses kindness. Dust lifts and turns in the brightness like plankton in a rectangular sea. Heat blooms in slow, stubborn waves. Everything smells of persistence: old oil softened to a sweet tar, warm rubber, singed dust, the faint metallic tang that sits on the tongue. The hydraulic lift exhales, patient and emphatic, and the car begins to rise — inch by reluctant inch — as if drawn from the floor by a quiet, unseen tide.

Meanwhile, the radio murmurs from a shelf, a thin chorus of strangers: a jingle, a caller’s laugh, a traffic update no one will heed. It gutters beneath the busier music of labour. The impact wrench chatters — tat, tat, tat — then stills; the compressor takes a long breath and lets it go in a sibilant sigh. Ratchets keep their own metronome: click, click, click. Somewhere a dropped socket rings on concrete, rolling until it learns the perimeter and loses hope. Even the orange airline, coiled like a benign python, whispers across the floor when dragged.

Here, surfaces tell histories. The workbench wears a patina of fingerprints and polish, a palimpsest of tiny battles won. Spanners ladder the wall by jaw and size; sockets nest in a tray like polished fossils. There is a calendar that has lost its month but not its pose, a mug haloed by past coffee, a magnet furry with iron filings that glitter like cheap constellations. On a clipboard, the handwriting angles from brisk to weary: brakes, bushings, belts. An instruction chalked above the vice reads, half joke and half creed: Tighten by feel. The floor itself is illustrated — tyre prints curve and cross, black calligraphy on a grey page.

In the lifted car’s shadow, a mechanic leans into a wheel arch with the unhurried certainty of someone who has learned metal’s moods. His gloves are glossed with years of use; his wedding ring is dull with the abrasion of grit; the tender skin at his wrist shows a clean stripe. He listens, not to the radio but to the bolt’s small language: the minute protests, the almost-surrender. Heat is offered and withdrawn. A torch flame licks blue and neat. There is a puff of scent — hot solvent, sharp and oddly sweet — and then the soft relief of movement as the thread yields. If this is surgery, it is a kind that happily stains.

Beyond the threshold, the roller door hoists a square of weather. Rain stipples the forecourt and freckles back in, hissing where it meets hot metal; a plume of steam ghosts the grille. Traffic smears past; a bus sighs; someone outside laughs at nothing in particular. Yet inside, the air holds steady, as if the garage makes its own climate, its own time. Work is counted not by minutes but by motions: undid, lifted, aligned.

It isn’t beautiful — not in any fragile sense — but it is exact. The lift lowers; the car descends and the floor accepts it. Up and down, up and down, up and down: the rhythm continues, constant enough to be mesmerising. And in that cadence, in the clean certainty of tools returned to their hooks, there is something like calm.

Option B:

November. The month when daylight abandons the afternoons; gutters gulp brown water; wind worries at loose slates until they lift and fly. Above our salt-bitten harbour, the town clock had been brought to a standstill—hands pinned at seventeen minutes past three, the moment the storm ripped the roof and tore a slice from the sky. People looked up and, almost reverent, lowered their voices; the fishmonger wrapped his cod more slowly; the buses wheezed and moved on without their usual impatient clatter. Stopped, neighbours said; ruined, the council wrote. Beyond repair, someone muttered, as if finality were a neat solution.

As gulls skated the wind outside, I carried my sunflower-yellow toolbox up the tower’s narrow stairs, each tread sighing beneath my boots; the smell of wet stone and old oil braided around me. The air in the clock chamber tasted metallic, like struck coins. Dust lay over everything in a calm, soft drift—an indoor snow—that my sleeve disturbed into constellations. I set the toolbox down and unrolled my instruments: a file, a selection of screwdrivers with peevish little blades, a bottle of pale, honeyed lubricant; small, painstaking hope in a row.

The mechanism crouched in the centre like a patient with a complicated history. Corroded teeth showed jaggedly where they should have gleamed; ropes were frayed to the memory of fibres; the escapement—delicate and obstinate—was bent a fraction from true. The pendulum hung like a drowned metronome, heavy and unpersuaded. When I nudged it, it swung back once, begrudgingly, and settled into a sulky stillness. All the while, rain filtered through the rafters in a fine, persistent whisper; time, outside, continued without us.

My father had taught me to listen before I touched. “Everything that moves can be persuaded to move again,” he used to say, laying a watch on velvet, ear tilted as if it were telling him a story. He fixed small things—rings, radio dials, the silver hinge of a music box—and people brought him larger thanks than he expected. When the storm came, he was in a hospital bed, gazing at a clock that would not dare stop, and I promised, ridiculously and earnestly, to set ours going for him. What right had I to think I could coax this iron heart back to life? Nevertheless, with stubborn fingers and a breath that I tried to smooth, I began.

First, the practicalities: I cleaned the teeth, each flawed cusp filed to something that resembled precision; I realigned the bent pallet, careful not to snap what was resolute; I replaced the fraying cord with new braided rope that burned my palms as I worked it through. Minute by minute, I arranged screws in tidy constellations, wiped old oil from brass until faint, forgotten gleams confessed themselves. There were obstacles—the governor that refused to sit square, the arbor that sulked out of reach—but the rhythm of attempting and adjusting steadied me.

Outside, a siren wailed and flared away; inside, my world narrowed to tick and not tick, to the tiny negotiations of metal with metal. I set the pendulum swinging—left, right—counting, counting, until my breath matched it. For a moment nothing happened. Then, an almost-audible click: a syllable of time. It faltered, tripped, and held its silence again.

I leaned my forehead against the cool iron, letting my thoughts settle like tools in their slots. Beyond repair, I remembered—the phrase had sounded so conclusive. Yet there is a particular alchemy in persistence, in the courage of repetition. I lifted my head, adjusted the rate once more, and nudged the pendulum with a gentler insistence. The room gathered itself; the mechanism considered, resisted, then, very faintly, conceded.

Tick.

It sounded impossibly small in all that stone and wind, but it threaded through me. Another followed, a stammer working toward speech. This was not triumph; not yet. It was, instead, the promise of momentum—the first stubborn proof that even what looks broken beyond all sense can, with care and nerve, begin again.

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

Option A:

The garage breathes before it speaks: a ripple of heat, an exhalation scented with petrol and cold metal. Girders rib the ceiling, holding fluorescent strips that hum with patient, insectile insistence; their glare bleaches the morning to clinical white. Concrete is lacquered with a patina of spills—blackened, rainbow-sheened where last night’s rain crept in. A hydraulic lift rises in a measured sigh, raising a dented hatchback until the tyres dangle and the car lies open-bellied, docile as a patient. Shadows congregate beneath it; tools wait in trays, ranked and shining.

Sound stitches the place together. Wrenches knock a staccato against axle and bolt; sockets click, bite, release; compressed air hisses—then pauses—then resumes with metronomic intent. The radio mutters news to a world outside the door; inside, voices stay low and exact. One mechanic, sleeves ghosted with graphite, steps lightly (steel-capped boots notwithstanding), his movements economical, courteous to the machine. The smell is layered: hot rubber, citrus cleaner, the faint acidity of batteries, and something coppery that seems to sit on the tongue.

The tools and tokens of the trade accumulate like evidence. Tyres are stacked in black columns, chalked with sizes and dates (neatly, tenderly); a stool carries coffee rings like tree rings. On the bench, spanners lie arranged by span, precise as cutlery; another tray glitters with offcuts—clips, screws, serrated washers. Old meets new without fuss: a laptop, tethered to the engine, scrolls codes and graphs; the raised bonnet reveals ribs and belts, a labyrinth of hoses. Underneath, a drip pan holds a viscous mirror that shivers with every touch.

This is not a glamorous theatre, yet it feels ceremonial—a secular chapel of torque and patience. Who notices the finesse in such labour, the careful torquing, the checked measurements, the undoing and redoing until the geometry aligns? Outside, rain needles the forecourt; inside, concentration makes its own weather. A woman waits on a plastic chair, thumbs folded around a key fob, listening for the verdict.

Work proceeds, persuasively. The torque wrench sings a final note; the lift descends with unshowy grace; the bonnet closes with a clean, declarative click. Hands are wiped, though the black crescents remain; a receipt is signed; the engine turns over—hesitates—then steadies. Daylight leaks under the door in a pale blade. The car noses out, water steaming from its tyres, and the garage, without ceremony, inhales again, ready for the next ordinary fault.

Option B:

Dust. It lay in a thin, accusing film over the workbench; it powdered the crack-veined radio and the scattered screws like frost that had forgotten to melt. The bulb above my head hummed—an anxious insect trapped in its glass dome—and the room seemed to hold its breath as if it already knew the verdict. Beyond repair. People say it briskly, as if it were merciful. Final. Tidy.

Everyone told me to bin it: the fire had sent smoke clawing through the speaker, and the water that followed had drowned the rest. The Bakelite case was crazed with hairline fractures; the dial’s numbers had been rubbed into faint shadows by more fingers than I could count. Inside, a confetti of char and dust. It was not just a radio, though; it was what we listened to on winter Sundays, voices threaded with static and soup steam, my father tapping the casing in time to the news jingle.

I lined up my tools—flat-head and Phillips, tweezers, a stiff brush, a magnifying glass—like a surgeon preparing an intricate operation: methodical, breath steady, elbows tucked. The soldering iron breathed a thin cobalt ribbon into the cold air. I loosened the first screw; it protested, then yielded. Under the lid, the world was labyrinthine and fragile: coils like sleeping snails, a circuit board scarred and blistered, wires that had browned and stiffened as though winter had moved in and refused to leave. The smell rose—tinny, sweet, singed—an aroma of old afternoons.

“Listen before you fix,” my father used to say, his voice calm as a metronome. “Machines speak. They tell you what they want.” At twelve, I laughed at that; at twenty-two, I hear him in all my stubborn silences. He would have angled the light so it skimmed the surface, showing every imperfection; he would have labelled jars for the tiny screws (he hated losing even one), and he would have waited a full minute while the iron reached the right heat. He had a patience I used to call fussiness and now call wisdom.

A wire snapped when I tried to lift it, a brittle sigh; I flinched as if it were bone. For a breath, the verdict reared again: beyond repair... What do you do when a thing refuses to be the thing it was? You work smaller. You try again. I stripped back the insulation, exposing a bright thread of possibility, and fed it through the eye of the new joint. The solder pooled—mercurial, obedient—then set to a neat silver bead.

I pressed the switch. Nothing. Then, delicately, like rain finding a gutter, a quiver of static crept into the silence. Not music, not yet—just the whisper of almost. I leaned closer and the old dial, begrudgingly, shifted beneath my fingers. The room released its breath. So did I.

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

Option A:

Morning squeezes under the corrugated shutter, laying thin bars of lemon light across concrete mottled with oil. The garage breathes in its own weather: warm, metallic, faintly sweet with antifreeze, sharp with rubber. A wall fan turns in tired circles, moving heat, moving dust, not really cooling anything. On a bench, mugs ring-stained sit beside a jar of bolts; someone has written 'Do NOT touch' in permanent marker that has faded to a stubborn brown.

At the centre, a car hangs on hydraulic arms as if caught mid-leap. Its tyres dangle, its underbelly exposed: a ribcage of crossmembers, freckles of rust, the sump weeping a viscous tear. The lift groans, rises a fraction, settles. Dust swims in the white light, planets adrift. A dangling work lamp throws a hard circle, revealing belts that look like black snakes and a brake disc so clean it is almost mirror.

Against the back wall, tools are arranged with a kind of stern love. Spanners graduate from delicate to obstinate; the ratchet’s click-click-click is a metronome for patience. A pneumatic gun barks; the compressor answers with a tired sigh. Boxes labelled in blocky pen—clips; gaskets; 'misc'—perch on a shelf that sags politely. An orange extension cable loops from a hook like a sleeping lizard. Even the floor seems catalogued: skid, spill, scrape.

A mechanic ducks from under the chassis, wiping his hands on a rag that will never be clean. Knuckles stained the colour of old tea. He listens more than he looks, tilting his head as the engine coughs once, twice, then settles into a doubtful idle. The radio in the corner fizzes through static; weather, traffic, a thin song about somewhere else. He nods, murmuring to the car as if it might answer.

Beyond the open doorway the day is a muted sheet of drizzle, but in here time is measured differently—by jobs on the board, by the dwindling row of filter boxes, by the slow accumulation of fingerprints on bright paint. Heat gathers. The door rattles, lifts, drops; light slides, recedes. The garage, still breathing, keeps its steady, greasy heart.

Option B:

Afternoons in the empty front room were cold; a pale stripe of winter sun lay across the old piano like a bandage. Its keys were crowded with dust, some chipped into small crescents, others gone altogether. Everyone said it was finished, beyond repair, a dark, heavy ornament that would ever hold photographs. I almost agreed. Then, when I lifted the fallboard, the smell came—polish and wood and the faint metallic breath of strings—and something stubborn in me woke.

I laid my tools in a neat row: screwdriver, soft brush, a coil of new wire, glue that promised miracles. They looked ridiculous next to the instrument’s bulk, like teaspoons beside a ship. Still, I began. At first, I only cleaned, sweeping years into a grey cloud that drifted and settled again, as if reluctant to leave. Under the dust, the letters my grandmother had once stuck to the keys blinked back at me. C, D, E; simple steps, like the alphabet of a different life.

Fixing was slow work; it demanded patience I wasn't sure I had. Screws resisted with a little groan, felt peeled up like old wallpaper, brittle and stubborn. One hammer head snapped in my fingers and rolled under the pedals—I flinched, a childish, useless sorry escaping me, as if the piano could hear. For a moment I stared at the gap and heard the echo of what had been: Sunday afternoons, her right hand fluttering, my mother humming in the kitchen. The ache was sharp. However, the broken part was only a piece; there were others I could rescue. I threaded a wire through its brass eye, my hands steadying as if they remembered a skill I hadn't learned.

When I pressed the key, the sound that came was thin and shy, a reed in a wind. Not beautiful. Not yet. But it was a voice. I tried another, then another, notes tilting and correcting themselves as though the room were teaching them to stand. The radiator clicked; a bus sighed outside; life went on, and, meanwhile, this old machine answered back. Perhaps beyond repair really means: beyond quick, beyond simple, beyond giving up at the first crack.

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

Option A:

The strip lights hum above the bay, a pale, buzzing ceiling that flattens colour. A hydraulic lift breathes out; the arms shiver; the car rises, slow and certain, up and up until its tyres dangle like heavy fruit. The air is thick with petrol and old rubber and a metallic tang that sits on the tongue.

Tools hang in a red chest, all lined like soldiers, but the floor tells a different story: spilt bolts, a dropped wrench, charcoal fingerprints along the concrete. A ratchet clicks; a spanner bites; then comes the clonk as something gives. Steam snakes from a kettle in the corner—tea, two sugars—joining the smell of grease and warm dust. Posters for tyres and exhausts peel at the edges, like old paint giving up.

Two mechanics move in a quiet dance. One wipes his palms on blue paper, leaving crescent shapes; the other leans into the dark of the engine, his torch a clear coin of light. They talk in short sentences, practical and focused. Their voices carry a stubby patience. I watch the black hose of the compressor curl around their boots; it hisses and sighs, then sleeps.

By the office window, plastic chairs face a low table of curled magazines. A hand-written sign says Card Machine Down; the tape has yellowed, corners lifting. Outside, the shutter door is half open, letting in a stripe of day that turns the dust into glitter. Stacks of tyres lean against the wall; they rise like blunt towers and smell faintly sweet, almost like tar and autumn.

The car comes down again, steady, obedient. The lift coughs, rests. In this square of noise and light, time stretches but does not waste. Things are fixed. The garage keeps its rhythm; it works and works, reliable as a heartbeat.

Option B:

Morning. The light in the workshop was thin and pale, a tired curtain pulled across the benches. Dust wandered like lazy snow; the smell of cut metal and old oil clung to every surface. On the cloth sat the clock everyone had given up on. Its hands were frozen at midnight, like someone holding their breath.

Leah pressed her fingers against her sleeves; even now, her hands trembled a little. 'Beyond repair,' they had said, a verdict she felt like a rubber stamp on her heart. Still, she set the clock straight. She lined up her tools: tweezers, a jeweller’s screwdriver, a magnifying lens. She liked the order of it; it made the problem seem smaller, almost reasonable. Almost.

She remembered her father's voice from the winter he taught her to fix a toy car; 'Listen—machines speak.' She leaned close, as if the clock would confess. Under the glass, the cogs were a tangle of dull gold, speckled with dust; one gear was chipped clean through. It looked like a mouth with a tooth missing—a small absence that ruined the bite. She sighed, then began anyway: screw by screw, careful as a nurse.

Metal clicked softly; tiny springs ticked against her nail. She cleaned grit with the corner of a lint-free cloth, eased the bent pin back to true. The room held its breath with her. When she fitted the spare cog—a match from a tin her father left—something shifted. She nudged the balance wheel; it stuttered, then fell silent. For a beat she thought of the easy choice: close the lid, call it impossible, leave the crack staring like a scar. Instead, she wound the key a fraction and waited; the silence thinned, and one quiet tick stepped into the room.

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

Option A:

Harsh white light lies on the concrete floor, coming from long flourescent tubes that buzz all day. The shutter door is half open, and a stripe of daylight creeps in. It smells of oil and hot rubber, and old metal. In the corner the compressor breathes — in, out — steady and stubborn. The floor is stained and gritty, with a trail of bolts someone kicked aside. A hose snakes past my boot; the air tastes of dust and something bitter.

On the lift a grey car hangs like a patient, its belly shown to anybody who looks. The hydraulic arms sigh and the whole thing rises — up and down, up and down, up and down — as the mechanic tests it. His hands are black at the knuckles, his eyes narrow with concentration. An impact gun rattles a quick song; a screwdriver skates off a rounded screw. The lift shudders up, the chains twitch, and we all glance instinctively. Meanwhile, outside, traffic sighs.

Tools rest in red drawers but they never stay quiet for long: spanners clatter, sockets roll in small circles until they find the drain, then they stop. One wall is a collage — calendars, safety signs, greasy notes held by magnets. Heat swells and the fan struggles. Beyond the car, tyres sit in a neat tower, chalk letters pale on their sides. I watch a bead of oil tremble on the sump, then fall and make a new star on the floor. The garage keeps working; it doesn’t really sleep.

Option B:

Winter. The time when things slow down; breath hangs like smoke. On the bench lay the clock, its cracked glass making a pattern like ice on a puddle. It had fallen from the hallway wall last summer, and everyone said to bin it because it was beyond repair. It belonged to Dad, so it wasn’t just a clock.

I wiped the dust with my sleeve and listened to the loud nothing. No tick, no heartbeat inside. The screws looked tiny and stubborn. My fingers felt clumsy, but I found the small screwdriver and a little oil. Be careful, I told myself. Where do you even start?

As the wind worried at the roof, I loosened the first screw—it jumped and rolled like a coin escaping; I trapped it with my palm, relief. The back came free, and the insides showed themselves: wheels, springs, teeth that wanted to bite. I leaned closer until the bulb hummed and my eyes ached.

Something had snapped months ago; a spring lay bent, a thin ribbon of steel twisted the wrong way. It looked hopeless. I almost gave up. But I remembered Dad’s hands fixing a bike chain, how patience is a tool too. I straightened the spring with tweezers, slowly, counting under my breath.

I turned the crown—once, twice. The minute hand shivered, then stopped; silence crowded the shed. I waited, ear to the bench, like I could hear the clock thinking. Maybe I was trying to fix more than cogs.

Tick.

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

Option A:

Inside the garage, hot air hangs heavy with oil and rubber. Fluorescent lights hum above, making pale rectangles on the concrete. The floor is stained with old spills; they look like dark maps of islands. A car sits on a hydraulic lift, raised like a patient. Sunlight slides under the shutter and catches the dust, drifting, drifting. It smells sharp and strong: petrol, warm metal, coffee that has gone bitter.

At the back, an air compressor coughs into life and gives a long hiss. Tools dangle from hooks - spanners, sockets, a hammer - and a red toolbox gapes like a mouth. Shelves are messy but labelled: bolts, filters, fuses. A tyre leans by the wall, shiny like liquorice. The small radio is low, it crackles with a song you half-know. Outside a bus shudders past; inside, the impact wrench chatters, stop-start, stop-start, like teeth.

Sometimes a mechanic wipes his hands on a rag and squints at the engine. Screws roll in a tin, tick, tick, tick. The door is half open; afternoon light slides in. Heat sticks to your skin and the smell stays on your clothes. It isn’t fancy; it works. The lift lowers and rises, up and down, up and down, and the garage keeps breathing, steady, steady.

Option B:

Morning. Cold and quiet; dust sat thick on the broken radio. Its back panel was dented, the dial spidered with cracks, wires poked out like thin veins. It looked finished. Beyond repair, Mum said, but I couldn’t leave it. Not today.

I set out the tools: a tiny screwdriver, a teaspoon for prying, a jar for screws. The smell of old metal and dust tickled my nose. Outside, rain tapped the shed roof like fingers. I whispered—I can fix this, I can fix you—though my hands trembled. After that, I loosened the first screw; it stuck, stubborn as a knot. There was too many bits and each one wanted to roll away, shining.

Inside, the mechanism was a tangle, a city of copper and thread. I didn’t know every part, but it mattered: it was Dad’s. He used to tune it to the football, to the weather, to voices that sounded far and close.

Then I pushed the back on and pressed it’s tired button. Silence... a click... and nothing. I breathed out, the dust danced.

Another try. A thin hiss rose, like breath in winter, and a dot of light woke on the dial. Maybe it wasn’t beyond repair after all.

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

Option A:

The garage is loud and hot. A car sits on a lift, it rises slowly, like a big grey boat. Chains rattle, the metal sings a thin sound.

Oil smell is thick, it sticks to my throat. The floor is wet with dark puddles; strip lights buzz and blink. Tyres in a tower, black rings, they lean.

Tools lie in a red tray: spanners, bolts, screws. A hammer taps, tap tap, then a bang that jumps in my chest. A fan turns, it just moves warm air.

A man in blue overalls wipes his hands on a rag, his fingers are black. He mutters, the radio talks as well, both voices mix. The car hangs above like a sleeping animal.

Grease under nails.

The big door is half open. Outside is pale sky, cold air creeps in, the smell meets it. Up and down, up and down, the lift moans.

Option B:

Rain on the window. The old radio sits on the table like a square stone. It is dead, everyone said. Beyond repair. I stare at the thin crack across its face and the dust.

First I get a small screwdriver, it is a bent one from the drawer. My hands shake a bit, I dont know why, maybe the cold, maybe because it was grandad's and he is gone now and I want it to speak again and its silly but I can hear him laugh. The back wont open first time, screws roll on the floor, the wires was knotted and old. I breath and push and twist slow like a key.

A click, a crack. Nothing.

Then a tiny whisper, like rain in a jar. I smile and I cry, the radio is not fixed proper but it tries, and the room feels less broke.

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

Option A:

The garage is loud and hot. A car is on the lift, it goes up slow, making a long whine. The air smell like oil and rubber, thick and sweet, it sticks to my tongue. Lights flicker. The floor is wet and dark with grease. A man in a blue shirt hits a wheel with a spaner, clank clank, echoing. Their radio crackles, a voice lost. I taste dust and a bit of smoke. Outside a dog barks, I think about chips for tea. Back inside the hydrulic arm sighs. We wait for the car to come down, we just wait.

Option B:

Morning. The bench is cold and my hands are cold too. The old radio is in bits, screws like little seeds on the table, the back is cracked and the wire is cut. It looks dead and I stare at it and I think it cant be fixed but I still start. I push parts together, they dont fit, I push again. The parts was tiny and hard. I hear the bus outside and I remember Dad leaving, that was broke as well, I try not to think. I talk to the radio, come on, work, please! A small click, a hush, nothing, then maybe a thin sound.