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 From which direction does the speaker come round?: from behind the narrator – 1 mark
• 1.2 Where does the speaker put a hand?: on the narrator's shoulder – 1 mark
• 1.3 What does the speaker say he had no business to do?: let the narrator drift out into this island – 1 mark
• 1.4 What does Montgomery offer to give Prendick?: Something to help Prendick sleep – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 I did not reply. I bowed forward, and covered my face with my hands. Presently he returned with a small measure containing a dark liquid. This he gave me. I took it unresistingly, and he helped me into the hammock.

11 When I awoke, it was broad day. For a little while I lay flat, staring at the roof above me. The rafters, I observed, were made out of the timbers of a ship. Then I turned my head, and saw a meal prepared for me on the table. I perceived that I was hungry, and prepared to clamber out of the hammock, which, very politely anticipating my intention, twisted round and deposited me

How does the writer use language here to describe the narrator’s waking and the room around him? 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 perceptively explores how precise narration shifts from numb compliance to alert perception: the ambiguous noun phrase 'dark liquid' and adverb 'unresistingly' imply passive submission, while the first-person sensory verbs 'staring', 'observed' and 'perceived' chart awakening in 'broad day', with maritime imagery ('the timbers of a ship') anchoring the setting. It would also analyse how sentence forms move from short, detached declaratives to a longer, clause-heavy sentence where 'I perceived' leads into 'which, very politely anticipating my intention,' and the personified hammock 'twisted round and deposited me', creating ironic, comic loss of agency.

The writer uses controlled sentence forms and carefully chosen adverbs to chart the narrator’s surrender to sleep and his lucid waking. The sequence of short declaratives—"I did not reply. I bowed forward, and covered my face"—creates a clipped, ritual rhythm, while the adverb "unresistingly" conveys total passivity; paired with the temporal adverbial "Presently," they lull the reader into the same drowsy drift. The parataxis "This he gave me. I took it..." emphasises compliance, the mechanical acceptance that precedes oblivion. On waking, "When I awoke, it was broad day" uses the idiomatic "broad day" to flood the scene with clarity.

Furthermore, the personification of the hammock animates the room with gentle humour: it "very politely anticipating my intention, twisted round and deposited me." Anthropomorphism here casts the furniture as a considerate host, making the environment feel safe. The formal verbs "perceived" and "prepared" mark a measured, deliberate consciousness returning, while the precise "deposited"—with its connotations of careful placement, even cargo—suggests he is tenderly handled, a nuance that links tonally to the earlier passivity.

Moreover, the seafaring lexis—"rafters... made out of the timbers of a ship"—builds a semantic field that textures the room with history, subtly fusing inside with ocean. Concrete nouns ("rafters", "table", "meal") anchor the space, while the participial, parenthetical clause "which, very politely..." slows the rhythm in a gentle swing, echoing the hammock. The past participle "prepared" implies care by an unseen host, and the dynamic verb "clamber" signals lingering weakness, mapping his tentative re-entry into the world.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Using short, simple sentences like I did not reply. This he gave me. and vague, unsettling choices such as a dark liquid, alongside the compliant adverb in I took it unresistingly, the writer conveys the narrator’s groggy vulnerability on waking. Sensory detail and personification build the strange room: the specific setting reference timbers of a ship and the humorous personification very politely and twisted round and deposited me make the hammock act upon him, while it was broad day and a meal prepared suggest safety that contrasts with his disorientation.

The writer uses short declarative sentences to present the narrator’s groggy waking in a calm, measured way. “When I awoke, it was broad day” is blunt and certain, while “I lay flat, staring at the roof” slows the pace; the continuous verb “staring” suggests a dazed stillness. Moreover, the formal reporting verb “I observed” and the concrete noun phrase “the rafters… made out of the timbers of a ship” create precise imagery, placing the room within a nautical setting and making it feel unusual yet solid.

Furthermore, personification is used to make the surroundings seem gently helpful: the hammock “very politely anticipating my intention, twisted round and deposited me.” The adverb “politely” and the verb “deposited” give the hammock courteous agency, producing a humorous, reassuring tone as the room seems to look after him.

Additionally, the careful diction around care and need shapes the atmosphere. The participle phrase “a meal prepared for me” implies quiet hospitality, while “I perceived that I was hungry” uses formal lexis to show controlled self-awareness returning after sleep. Finally, the shift from earlier clipped clauses (“I did not reply… This he gave me”) to the later complex sentence with a relative clause (“which… anticipating my intention”) mirrors his movement from passivity and exhaustion—“unresistingly”—towards alertness, guiding the reader through his waking and the ordered calm of the room.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer uses short, simple sentences like "I did not reply." to show a calm, passive waking, and words/phrases such as "I took it unresistingly", "staring at the roof above me" and "broad day" suggest grogginess turning to awareness, while "dark liquid" hints at mystery and "the timbers of a ship" sets the room. It would also spot personification as the hammock "very politely" "twisted round" and "deposited me", making the scene feel oddly friendly.

Firstly, the writer uses short, simple sentences to show the narrator’s slow waking. 'When I awoke, it was broad day' and 'For a little while I lay flat' are plain statements, and 'I took it unresistingly' shows he is passive.

Furthermore, there is personification of the hammock: 'very politely anticipating my intention'. The verbs 'twisted round and deposited me' make the movement gentle and a bit funny, so the reader can picture him getting up.

Moreover, the writer uses descriptive words about the room: 'the rafters... made out of the timbers of a ship'. This helps us picture a roof made from a ship, so we understand the place. Additionally, verbs and adverbs like 'staring' and 'presently' slow the pace, showing his gradual awareness and a quiet atmosphere. Also, 'a meal prepared for me' makes the room seem welcoming.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses short, simple sentences like "I did not reply." and "This he gave me." and action words like "staring at the roof" and "prepared to clamber out of the hammock" to show he wakes slowly, while details "timbers of a ship" describe the room. There is personification in "very politely anticipating my intention" and movement in "twisted round" to make the hammock seem alive, and "dark liquid" adds a slightly mysterious feeling.

The writer uses an adjective in “broad day” to show it is bright when he wakes. Moreover, verbs like “staring”, “observed” and “perceived” show he is slowly noticing the room. Furthermore, the noun phrase “rafters… timbers of a ship” describes the room and makes it feel like a ship. Additionally, the hammock is personified as “very politely… twisted” and “deposited me”, so it seems friendly. Also, the phrase “a meal prepared for me” makes the room seem caring, and short sentences like “I did not reply” create a quiet mood.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Short, simple declaratives create a subdued, exhausted tone and immediate compliance (I did not reply)
• Lexis of submission emphasises passivity and vulnerability in the moment (I took it unresistingly)
• Formal, observational verbs give a measured, detached voice as awareness returns (I observed)
• Temporal markers structure the awakening step by step, guiding the reader through his reorientation (When I awoke)
• Visual detail grounds the setting and hints at improvised, maritime construction (timbers of a ship)
• Passive phrasing foregrounds care done for him, suggesting dependence on others (prepared for me)
• Personification adds wry humour, making the environment feel oddly courteous and alive (very politely)
• The final, longer complex sentence and embedded clause build comic timing as the hammock acts unexpectedly (twisted round)
• Cognitive verbs of perception chart his growing self-awareness and bodily needs (I perceived)
• Precise yet vague noun phrases sustain mystery about what he ingests before sleep (dark liquid)

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 novel.

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

You could write about:

• how chaos intensifies 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: A Level 4 response would track the structural escalation from the sedative lull of broad day and animal comfort through the threshold moment as the door ... opened, the delayed revelation of something else, very faint and low that becomes a human being in torment, to the kinetic climax (flung it open, smeared red) and abrupt shutdown (slammed, key turn), explaining how sequencing and shifts in pace intensify chaos. It would also show how the focus turns inward in a coda—clipped dialogue like Ruin the work of a lifetime giving way to my mind a chaos and the image shot like lightning across a tumultuous sky—to transform external disorder into psychological panic.

One way the writer structures the extract to create chaos is through deliberate juxtaposition and shifting pace from ordered calm to erupting disorder. We move from the measured morning routine—“When I awoke, it was broad day… animal comfort”—to the intrusion of dissonant sound. Temporal markers (“Presently,” “After a long pause,” “Presently” again, and crucially “Even as”) regulate and then accelerate the beat of events. The sequence of listening, doubting, and resuming the meal is repeatedly interrupted until the certainty of “groaning… a human being in torment!” fractures the calm. This escalating rhythm unsettles the reader and intensifies the sense of chaos.

In addition, the door functions as a structural hinge, and the retrospective aside “Afterwards I discovered that he forgot to re-lock it” momentarily dislocates chronology (analepsis), foreshadowing the breach to come. Simultaneity in “Even as that fear came back… came a cry” precipitates an abrupt shift in focus from interior safety to exterior peril as the narrator crosses the threshold “in three steps.” What follows is a fragmentary soundscape: the imperative “Prendick, man! Stop!”, then snatches of overheard dialogue—“Ruin the work of a lifetime” and “other things that were inaudible”—which withhold explanation and deepen confusion.

A further structural device is the rapid zoom and kinetic crescendo. The narration cuts through details—“blood…—brown… scarlet—… the smell of carbolic… something bound… then… the face of old Moreau”—an accumulating, dash-punctuated montage that mimics scattershot perception. The pace spikes as Moreau “gripped… twisted… flung” him; a door slam imposes abrupt closure. Finally, the perspective turns inward, a shift to interior monologue and rhetorical questioning, condensing external disorder into “my mind a chaos” and leaving an unresolved, cliff-hanger intensity.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: The passage is structured to escalate from calm routine to disorder, moving from the serene reset of "broad day" and a "meal prepared" (even a moment of "animal comfort") to withheld access and ominous interruptions—the door "forgot to re-lock", a "cry", then "groaning" and "a human being in torment"—which quickens pace and tension. It culminates in a violent, sensory reveal ("blood", "carbolic acid", Moreau "white and terrible"; he "gripped me" and "flung me"; the "key turn in the lock"), leaving the narrator’s "my mind a chaos", so the reader feels the mounting disorder.

One way the writer structures the text to create chaos is through contrast and shifting focus. The extract opens with orderly recovery ('When I awoke') and 'animal comfort', guided by temporal markers like 'Presently' and 'Afterwards'. This calm is destabilised as focus shifts to sound: first 'a cry', then 'faint and low' groaning. The abrupt change in mood, from comfort to 'a human being in torment!', jars the reader and initiates disorder.

In addition, the writer increases pace at the midpoint. The narrative moves in quick, successive actions: 'I rose... crossed the room... flung it open', with connectives 'then' and 'in a moment' accelerating it. Sensory details pile up — 'blood... carbolic acid... bound painfully' — and broken syntax with dashes mimics interruption. Dialogue erupts ('Stop!'), and violent verbs ('gripped... twisted... flung') create a chaotic flurry.

A further structural feature is the sustained first-person perspective with occasional retrospection ('Afterwards I discovered...'), which withholds certainty and amplifies confusion. The scene culminates in a turning point: overheard fragments ('Ruin the work of a lifetime'), an unanswered question, and the final line 'my mind a chaos' confirm intensifying disorder to the end.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds chaos by moving from calm to crisis: it starts quietly with "When I awoke, it was broad day", then interruptions and alarming sounds ("Presently the door... opened", "groaning, broken by sobs", "Stop!") speed up into sudden action ("flung me headlong", "Then I heard the key turn") and ends with "my mind a chaos," making the reader feel panicked.

One way the writer structures the extract to create chaos is by starting calmly at the beginning and then building. We get ordinary details like “breeze” and a “meal”, which slows the pace, then a change of focus to sounds: first a “cry”, then clearer “groaning”. This rising sequence intensifies the mood from quiet to panic.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts to sudden action at the door, which speeds up the pace. The quick movements “in three steps… flung it open” and then Moreau “flung me headlong” create a hectic turning point. Short, abrupt dialogue like “Stop!” adds to the disorder.

A further structural feature is the ending, which leaves confusion. We hear broken snatches of speech, “Ruin the work…”, and the narrator’s question, “Could it be possible…?”. This unresolved ending and first-person perspective make the chaos stay in the reader’s mind.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The structure moves from calm to chaos: it starts with 'broad day' and 'meal prepared', but after 'the door... opened' things get worse. We hear 'a cry' and 'groaning', see 'blood', he is 'flung... headlong', and it ends with 'the key turn in the lock' and 'my mind a chaos', which makes it feel chaotic.

One way the writer structures the text to create chaos is by starting calm and changing to panic. At the start, waking and eating is slow, then noises and shouting happen quickly, creating chaos.

In addition, the focus shifts from the room to the yard and then to voices behind the door. Time words like “Presently” and “Then” speed up the pace, so it feels messy.

A further structural feature is the ending. The door slams, quick dialogue (“Stop!”) and the final question leave a cliffhanger. This change in mood shows his mind turning into chaos.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Sedative-induced time skip delays confrontation and makes the narrator vulnerable, so later events feel more chaotic (make you sleep).
• Deceptive morning calm establishes contrast that sharpens the ensuing disorder (animal comfort).
• Early physical instability foreshadows loss of control, nudging order toward confusion (twisted round).
• The unlocked door acts as a structural trigger, enabling transgression and chaos to enter the scene (forgot to re-lock).
• Gradual escalation through sound—from doubt to certainty—builds tension into mental turmoil (groaning, broken by sobs).
• Sudden acceleration of pace with terse actions releases the pent-up chaos in a rush (in three steps).
• Rapid sensory layering at the threshold piles shocks to overwhelm reader and narrator alike (yelped and snarled).
• Violent interruption and slammed separation intensify disorder and powerlessness (flung me headlong).
• Snatched, partial dialogue creates fragmentation and uncertainty, sustaining the chaotic aftermath (Ruin the work).
• Final metaphor and explicit self-diagnosis crystallise inner turmoil into a peak of danger (my mind a chaos).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 16 to the end.

In this part of the source, when Moreau easily throws Prendick back into his room, it is a surprising show of strength. The writer suggests that Moreau's physical power is a sign of his total control over the island.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Moreau's surprising show of strength
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest Moreau's total control
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the writer frames Moreau’s physical dominance as emblematic of authority through the hyperbolic simile "lifted me as though I was a little child" and the decisive "key turn in the lock." However, it would also interrogate the claim of total control by highlighting destabilising details—Montgomery’s "I’m frightfully busy," that he "forgot to re-lock," and the invasive "groaning, broken by sobs"—which suggest power maintained under pressure rather than absolute mastery.

I largely agree that Moreau’s ejection of Prendick is a startling display of strength, and the writer crafts it as the visible emblem of a wider authority. However, the passage also nuances this “total control,” suggesting that his dominance is maintained through a network of boundaries, instruments, and fear rather than brute force alone.

The scene is primed by a deceptive calm that makes the violence shocking. The “morning breeze” that blows “pleasantly” and the “sense of animal comfort” lull both Prendick and the reader, so the subsequent eruption feels abrupt. The auditory imagery—“groaning, broken by sobs and gasps of anguish”—marks a tonal swerve from comfort to horror. Crucially, the narrator’s internal focalisation (“I sat as if frozen”) captures the paralysis before action, sharpening the impact of the threshold he crosses when he “flung” the door open. Structurally, the forgotten re-locking—Montgomery “forgot to re-lock it”—is a hinge that permits the transgression and sets up Moreau’s swift reassertion of order.

Moreau’s strength is rendered as both surprising and unequivocal. The description “the face of old Moreau, white and terrible” juxtaposes age (“old”) with an almost supernatural ferocity, making his physical dominance unexpected. A volley of dynamic verbs—“gripped,” “twisted,” “flung”—conveys kinetic force, while the adverbial “in a moment” accelerates the pace to underscore his decisiveness. The simile “He lifted me as though I was a little child” infantilises Prendick and magnifies the power differential. The detail of the “hand that was smeared red” merges surgical authority with physical menace, fusing scientific and bodily control in a single, arresting image.

Yet the writer suggests control extends beyond muscle. Spatial symbols and sound effects enact authority: the “door slammed” and “the key turn in the lock” are metonymic closures, sealing boundaries Moreau polices. His discourse—“Ruin the work of a lifetime,” “I can’t spare the time yet”—is authoritative, framed by high-stakes purpose and temporal control. The clinical semantic field—“blood… brown, and some scarlet,” “carbolic acid,” the figure “bound painfully upon a framework”—projects a laboratory regime. Even the “startled deerhound” operates as an extension of surveillance and enforcement. The psychological aftermath—Prendick “trembling,” his mind “a chaos” condensing into “a vivid realisation of my own danger”—shows how control colonises consciousness.

However, the slip—Montgomery’s forgotten lock—and the eruptive “human being in torment” imply volatility at the edges of this regime. Thus, while Moreau’s effortless throw functions as a shocking synecdoche for his dominance, the passage presents his mastery as meticulously engineered within the compound rather than incontrovertibly “total” across the island. Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer makes Moreau’s physical power the clearest sign of a broader, near-comprehensive control, though not without fissures.

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 violent verbs (gripped, twisted, flung) and the simile He lifted me as though I was a little child create a surprising show of strength that signals his authority over the island, reinforced by the decisive the key turn in the lock and commanding Ruin the work of a lifetime. It would also note limits to total control, with white and terrible hinting strain and the human being in torment beyond the door suggesting disorder he must contain.

I largely agree with the statement. Moreau’s sudden, effortless violence is a surprising show of strength, and the writer uses it to suggest his authority is decisive and controlling, especially within the compound, though there are hints that this “total control” is maintained by secrecy and fear.

The surprise of his strength is built through contrast. The passage opens with calm, sensuous detail—the “morning breeze” and a “sense of animal comfort”—before a sharp structural shift into action. The dynamic verbs “gripped,” “twisted,” and “flung” come in rapid succession, creating a burst of physical force. The simile “as though I was a little child” emphasises the effortless disparity between “old Moreau” and Prendick, making the moment shocking. Even the description of Moreau’s face as “white and terrible” suggests cold, focused menace; this adjective choice strips him of warmth and aligns his strength with intimidation rather than mere physicality.

The writer then links this power to control. The door “slammed” and the “key turn in the lock” form a motif of containment, showing Moreau’s command over movement and information. His clipped dialogue—“Ruin the work of a lifetime,” “I can’t spare the time yet”—positions him as the arbiter of priorities and time, while Montgomery’s “expostulation” implies subordination. Sensory imagery of the laboratory—the “blood… brown, and some scarlet,” the sterile “smell of carbolic acid”—suggests clinical mastery over bodies. Structurally, the narrative’s sudden silence (“The rest I did not hear”) underscores Moreau’s control over what the narrator—and therefore the reader—may know.

However, the anxiety in “Ruin the work of a lifetime” hints that his power is also precarious, needing locks and force to be maintained. Prendick’s “vivid realisation of my own danger” shows fear as a tool of rule. Overall, I agree to a large extent: Moreau’s startling strength symbolises his near-total control, most visibly within the enclosure, and by implication across the island through terror and secrecy.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response will mostly agree that Moreau’s physical power shows control, using simple evidence like the forceful verbs 'gripped', 'twisted', 'flung', the image 'lifted me as though I was a little child', and 'the key turn in the lock' to suggest authority. It may briefly note that Montgomery’s 'expostulation' hints the control may not be fully “total,” but offers limited evaluation.

I mostly agree that Moreau’s sudden action is a surprising show of strength, and that it suggests his control, though I don’t think it proves total control over the whole island.

The writer builds surprise by starting with calm, pleasant detail: the “morning breeze” and “animal comfort” create a relaxed tone. This contrasts with the later violence, so when Prendick hears “groaning” from “a human being in torment,” the mood flips. This structural shift from comfort to horror makes Moreau’s strength feel more shocking.

When Moreau appears, his power is clear. The forceful verbs “gripped,” “twisted,” and “flung” show how easily he handles Prendick, and the simile “as though I was a little child” makes Prendick seem weak and helpless. The adjective “white and terrible” for Moreau’s face adds to his frightening presence. The pace also speeds up with “In a moment,” which makes the attack feel sudden and overwhelming.

The writer also shows control through actions and sound. The “door slammed” and “I heard the key turn” suggest authority and confinement; the key is a symbol of who is in charge. Moreau’s direct speech, “Ruin the work of a lifetime” and “I can’t spare the time yet,” shows he sets priorities and gives orders, while Montgomery’s “expostulation” suggests he submits.

However, it is not total control: Montgomery “forgot to re-lock” the door, and the “yelped” dog and “anguish” behind the wall hint at turmoil.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the surprising strength presents Moreau as dominant and controlling, but the writer also hints that his power depends on secrecy and locks, not absolute control of the island.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a typical response would mostly agree, pointing out that Moreau flung me headlong back into my own room and lifted me as though I was a little child, showing he is strong and in charge. They might also mention the key turn in the lock as simple evidence that he controls what happens on the island.

I mostly agree with the statement. When Moreau throws Prendick back, it is sudden and strong, and it makes him seem in charge. At the start Prendick feels “animal comfort,” but then everything changes quickly. The writer uses powerful verbs like “gripped,” “twisted” and “flung,” which show force. It is surprising because Moreau “lifted me as though I was a little child.” This simile makes Moreau seem much stronger than Prendick.

Moreau also seems to control everything around him. His face is described as “white and terrible,” which is an adjective that makes him sound scary and in control. The “door slammed” and then “the key turn in the lock” shows he can lock Prendick away whenever he wants. The dialogue also shows control: “Ruin the work of a lifetime,” and “I can’t spare the time yet,” suggest he decides what happens and when.

Even when Montgomery tries to stop him, Moreau overrules him. Overall, I agree that Moreau’s physical power is a sign of his total control, and the writer’s language makes his strength and authority clear across the island.

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:

• Kinetic, violent verbs present a shocking physical dominance that instantly subdues the narrator (twisted me off my feet)
• Simile reduces Prendick to helplessness, making Moreau’s power feel effortless and absolute (a little child)
• Locking imagery signifies imposed containment and spatial control, asserting authority over access (the key turn in the lock)
• Fearsome facial description projects intimidation, securing compliance through sheer presence (white and terrible)
• Age–power contrast heightens surprise as an ostensibly frail figure wields devastating force (old Moreau)
• Narrator’s shaken state shows psychological domination as well as physical mastery (my mind a chaos)
• Self-justifying dialogue frames his authority as necessary, legitimising harsh measures to protect purpose (work of a lifetime)
• Clinical detail implies systematic, procedural control over bodies, not mere brute force (carbolic acid)
• Procedural lapse hints limits to absolutism; security failures undercut claims of total control (forgot to re-lock it)
• Audible dissent shows rule is contested, though his directives prevail—strong, but not absolute, control (Montgomery’s voice in expostulation)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A regional food blog is running a creative writing page and wants lively pieces about places to eat.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a seaside fish and chip shop on a busy Friday from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a meal that brings strangers together.

(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 door springs inward and the seaside tumbles in; a tinkling bell, a gust tasting of salt, a flap of gull-wing shadow sliding across the salt-streaked glass. At once the shop is louder—sizzle, chatter, the soft prayer of the fryers. The neon fish buzzes above the counter, its cerulean spine stuttering; the queue curls and uncurls as if tide-drawn. Friday has arrived, ravenous.

Beneath the humming strip-lights, the oil is an amber sea. Baskets plunge and surface in a practiced choreography; droplets spit and crackle on contact. Batter ribbons from ladles, pale and tentative, then armours into something audacious, a lacquered hide that shivers and sings. The rhythm is relentless—plunge, lift; shake, drain; salt and vinegar, salt and vinegar.

Behind the salt-rimed counter, the servers move with brisk grace. 'Next!' Mara—sleeves rolled, forearms floured—wields her tongs like a conductor's baton: cod, haddock, plaice; a constellation of orders mapped on greaseproof. She glances up: 'Curry on that? Peas? Say when.' And people do not, not at first. Vinegar threads from the bottle in a fine, acerbic rain and stings the air; eyes prickle, smiles bloom.

Jars squat along the shelf like watchful buoys: gherkins, pickled eggs, beets the colour of low-tide sunsets. Lemons lie halved and exhausted; ketchup stands to attention beside its fiercer cousin. A chalkboard leans—Haddock 6.95, Scampi 5.80—numbers smudged as if the sea had tried to wash them clean. Newsprint rustles. Hands hover. The paper blushes with grease almost immediately, a darkening map of satisfaction.

Meanwhile, the people come, a familiar procession. A builder with plaster in his hair; a pair of teenagers, all elbows and shy bravado. A grandad in a cap orders 'just the scraps', and receives a scoop of crisp shrapnel with a nod that is nearly a benediction. Toddlers squeak across the floor—sticky, sugared. Beyond the steamed window, gulls annotate the air, and the sea keeps sawing at the edge of the town.

There is the outside, slate-grey and insistent, and there is the inside, bright as a brass penny. Wrists work; shoulders loosen. Chips tumble like straw from a harvest you can hold; the first is always stolen before the bag is tied. Too hot, too perfect. Everyone pretends dignity, fails, laughs. The weekend begins in a mouthful.

By the door, the bell chatters again. The queue advances then retreats, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, remembering the sea. A boy stares at the fryer as if it were an oracle; a woman checks her watch and then does not. Outside, rain thinks about it. Inside, the shop breathes out a faithful, edible fog. For a moment—sticky floor, humming sign, salt-snowed bags—the town is held together by paper, heat, and the old promise of vinegar.

Option B:

Evening. The power failed at six; the lift shuddered into silence, and the corridor’s fluorescent tubes blinked, paled, then surrendered in a small embarrassed sigh. Block E stood like a cliff of blank windows, the city beyond reduced to a smear of sodium haze. Nevertheless, in that sudden hush, another light considered itself: a match.

Leila coaxed the gas hob into a blue whisper and set her largest pot upon it, the enamel chipped but resolute. Oil eased across its base in a thin, glistening sheet. Onions tumbled in and sighed; garlic followed, bruised under her knife, releasing its forthright sweetness. She pinched saffron between finger and thumb, its threads falling like red confetti; cumin woke and smoked; tomatoes collapsed into themselves and became a reddened tide. The scent prowled the hallway—insistent, persuasive, the kind of aroma that taps at memory as if it were a door. She propped open her flat with a slipper. Come in, the air said, even before she did.

They arrived as if summoned by an old, remembered bell. First came the bike courier from 4A, rain freckling his jacket, helmet tucked under his arm; then Mrs Osei with a chessboard clutched like an heirloom; a nurse from 9C who wore fatigue like a second skin and carried a supermarket baguette; a boy in dinosaur pyjamas; a violinist—unknown to most—whose case was proof that music was not only for the illuminated. Each person brought something that felt both small and significant: olives in a cracked bowl; two tangerines; a jar of honey that looked, in candlelight, like bottled afternoon. Names were offered, halting and then confident. I’m Callum, I’m Asha, I’m Mr Osei—no, just Kwesi, tonight.

By degrees, the stairwell became a table. Someone dragged out a camping stove; someone else found a stack of paper plates, floral and slightly tacky; there was a roll of kitchen towel that became serviettes; there were mugs that became ladles and tumblers that became soup bowls. Steam limned the air and wrote cursive on the cold; the pot burbled, benevolent. When Leila lifted the lid, the corridor brightened—not with light, exactly, but with the heightened attention that happens when hunger is about to be answered.

They ate. Bread was torn and passed; spoons clinked with a music of their own; laughter arrived late but, once there, refused to leave. Stories—half-true, entirely necessary—began to unthaw. The nurse described the ward’s night-shift symphony; the courier confessed he sometimes delivered meals he could never afford; the violinist, abruptly shy, said only that she played by riverlight when rent was due. Leila listened and stirred and served again; she remembered her mother saying, long ago and far away: When the world dims, you feed it.

Outside, sirens scrawled their staccato script; inside, the building finally exhaled. The soup was unctuous, redolent, perhaps a touch too salty—Leila winced, then shrugged, for generosity forgives seasoning. A child asked for seconds, which felt like a blessing. Someone suggested chess; someone began to hum. And when, eventually, the lights jittered back to life and the lift yawned awake, no one reached for a switch. Why would they? In that improvised glow, strangers had discovered the oldest recipe for warmth: a shared bowl, a shared story, and a table long enough to stretch across the distance between doorways.

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

Option A:

The shop breathes in gusts of steam and vinegar, the air bristling with heat and impatience. Friday comes in waves—office workers, families, the solitary regular with exact change—each pulled to the doorway by the brackish perfume of hot fat and sea. Fluorescent tubes buzz as the fryer glass blooms with mist. Behind the salt-streaked counter the oil frets and flares, a lake of amber; wire baskets rise and sink in a practised rhythm, up and down, up and down, like fishermen’s nets.

Concurrently, the room becomes its own small city. A bell pings; the receipt printer chatters; wrappers rustle, quick as rain. ‘Next!’ Someone steps forward (hesitating, then committing). ‘Large cod, small chips, mushy peas.’ ‘Salt and vinegar?’ The same question, the same answer, never the same hunger. Hands—scarred, deft—move in a choreography both urgent and calm. Tong, scoop, shake: salt hails down, vinegar flares, eyes prickle. Coins chime; a lid snaps; the queue breathes.

Customers lean on the counter’s crust of salt as if at a railing. A man in a loosened tie checks his watch; a girl, sand in her socks, presses her nose to the glass to watch the chips cascade. A gust of evening blows in, iodine-bright, ruffling napkins. Outside, gulls stitch the sky; inside, the staff are unflappable. The manager—apron starched, hair pinned, voice even—conducts the heat with a glance and a nod.

The fish emerges lacquered and crackling, batter fracturing into delicate shards; within, the flesh is pearly, clean. Chips tumble in a starchy avalanche. Steam billows, carrying that paradoxical scent—sea and street. Paper is folded with swift precision, parcel upon parcel, each square a small furnace; palms glow. A wedge of lemon waits like punctuation: brief, sharp. There is beauty in the repetition; there is comfort in it.

The décor is unapologetically functional: a chalk-smeared board, two battered ketchup bottles, a vinegar dispenser that sweats sticky tears. Stainless steel throws back blurred light; the floor wears fine grit and salt-dust. What matters is sequence: order in, money paid, paper folded, hunger answered.

Beyond the doorway the promenade glows pewter; the sea lifts and lowers in steady breaths. The sign in the window flickers—FRY DAY—half the A lost to weather and salt. The queue dwindles then swells, obedient to trains and sunsets. People leave cradling their heat, faces softening at the first bite, week loosening. Ordinary, resolutely so, and yet momentous: a ritual as firm as the tide, repeated, anticipated, necessary.

Option B:

Evening. The kind that arrives softly—stretched thin along the terraced roofs—slipping under doors like a rumour of rain. In the community hall, the strip-lights hummed; folding chairs crooked their metal legs; a handwritten notice flapped on blue tack: Soup Tonight — Everyone Welcome.

I lifted the lid and steam blossomed up, redolent and insistent. Turmeric and tomatoes; garlic that had surrendered its sharpness; coriander like a green whisper. The pot, dented and patient, held more than broth—it held something old, a recipe with the thumbprint of my grandmother in it (she measured with her palm, not scales). I stirred until the surface settled to a shy shimmer; the wooden spoon tapped the rim with a ceremonial clink, as if calling people to the table.

Concurrently, the door sighed and strangers stepped in. A courier with a scuffed helmet under his arm; a woman whose suitcase wheels had done miles; a nurse in weary trainers, lanyard looped; a boy with a skateboard held like a shield; an elderly man wearing his best tie. They hovered, uncertain, bound by the thin string of politeness and doubt, their eyes drawn to the pot as if warmth had gravity.

I smiled and laid out bowls—white, mismatched, gleaming—and the hall gathered its courage. Bread was sliced into generous, imprecise slabs. The first ladleful poured like sunrise, cascading over carrots and chickpeas; the scent unfurled, and shoulders loosened. We ate before we spoke, because hunger is the oldest language. Then names found their way onto the table between crumbs: Mateo, Evelyn, Mr Harris, Aisha. Stories followed in careful spoons. The courier tilted a tiny bottle of chilli into his bowl and offered it onward; the nurse produced, almost shyly, still-warm chapatis from a tea towel; the boy passed the salt to the elderly man as if it were something precious.

Heat coaxed flavour from disparate things; flame made harmony where there had been separate notes. At the table, the same alchemy happened, slow and almost invisible—a confluence of voices and small kindnesses. Someone told a joke about onions making everyone cry, and everyone laughed anyway. Under the thrum of the lights and the slightly crooked bunting, we were changing—subtly, pertinently—into a kind of we. What else is a meal for, if not this?

Outside, buses sighed and tyres whispered on wet tarmac; inside, the pot sank lower, satisfied. I skimmed the last, tender lentils and listened to the warm tangle of voices that didn’t, any more, sound like separate threads. When the door banged again and a tall woman stood uncertain on the threshold, we shuffled up, instinctive, making space. The spoon, still warm in my hand, hovered; the night, as if listening, held its breath.

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

Option A:

The bell over the door chatters as it opens; a breath of briny air presses against a wall of heat. It is Friday, and the shop is crowded—steam leaking from the fryers, the neon sign blinking. Vinegar bites the back of my throat; salt freckles the window. The counter is salt-streaked; fingerprints shine in the greasy light. Oil shivers and spits; baskets plunge. "Large cod and two chips!" someone calls, the phrase stitching itself through the din.

At the door the queue loops: a builder in a fluorescent jacket; a mother rocking a pram; teenagers with damp hoodies and arcade tickets. Conversations overlap—work that dragged, buses that were late—until the shop becomes a soft argument. The floor is gritty with sand; the tiles scuffed and damp. Outside, gulls heckle; the wind shoulders the door; no one moves. It is Friday. You wait.

Behind the counter the rhythm is practised. Hands dart; a ladle traces circles of batter that puff like pale clouds; fillets slide into gold. The baskets lift gleaming, chips tumbling like coins from a tipped jar. A shake of salt—white as frost—falls in a hiss. "Salt and vinegar?" the woman asks again, not impatient, just automatic. Peas squat in a green gleam; curry sauce steams on the hob. The till snaps; slips curl.

I like to watch the parcels being made: paper folded, tucked, folded again—a neat pillow of heat. The smell is everywhere—warm oil, sweet onions, a tang of malt vinegar that makes your eyes water. Coins clatter. A boy reaches a hand and is warned, too late. "Careful, love, it’s hot!" Steam smears his glasses; he grins anyway, the first chip too big for his small mouth.

Outside, the sea huffs beyond the promenade, a dark, impatient animal. People drift out with their trophies, heading for benches and the low wall that always feels colder than it looks. Inside, the pace eases. There is time for one more order—someone steps forward, rain glistening on their coat, and speaks. The shop breathes again, a beacon in the damp wind, guiding everyone to something simple, hot and bright.

Option B:

Steam. The kind that curled off a pot like an invitation, slipping under doors and along the rain-dark street. It smelt of cumin and lemon and slow onions; of warmth; of something nearly remembered. In Number Thirty-One, Leila stirred and tasted. Outside, she unfolded a long table and covered it with a cloth ironed into obedience. Bowls waited—white, chipped, clean; flatbreads shone with oil; a jar of mint stood like a small tree. On the door: Come in. Eat if you like. Pay if you can.

At first only one came: a delivery rider with a fluorescent jacket and blue knuckles. He hovered, then sat, then smiled at the steam. Then an elderly man with a bruised newspaper; a girl with a sketchbook; a woman with a rattling suitcase; two tourists; a nurse with her badge flipped. Strangers, a small miscellany, drawn by a scent that asked them to trust it.

Who sits down with strangers because a smell asks them to? People who are cold. People who are curious. Leila ladled out the stew—chickpeas, soft carrots, saffron rice—and the first spoonfuls made the kind of silence that isn’t empty at all. They didn’t know names; they didn’t know histories. But there was bread to tear and pass, and the choreography of hands began to braid them together.

Meanwhile conversation seeped in like the broth, tentative then generous. The courier was between addresses. The old man said the rain made the city honest. The girl sketched the steam as a ribbon. The nurse rubbed her eyes, then laughed at nothing much—and everyone, relieved, laughed too. A shared napkin. A borrowed pen. Laughter arrived late, like a guest who missed the bus, but it came.

By the time the pot showed its bottom, the street was a mirror; the room seemed to breathe. Outside, cars hissed. Inside, shoulders leaned closer, as if the table were a raft and the stew the sea that held it steady. Leila topped up the pot, just in case.

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

Option A:

The sign hums above the doorway, a blue fish flickering like it might swim away. Friday draws a line of people to the door; the queue bends past the window where salt and steam blur the view. Across the road the sea thumps like a quiet drum and pushes the smell of chips back along the street. The door sighs open and shut; heat rolls over ankles, sharp with vinegar. Inside glows like a small rectangle of daylight in the evening.

Behind the salt-streaked counter, fryers breathe out white clouds. Oil snaps and pops. Baskets sink; baskets rise. A scoop rattles against the tray, throwing chips into pale-gold piles. Fillets of cod slide into oil and bloom into crisp coats; vinegar bottles squat along the counter. Above, strip lights hum: condensation beads on the glass; the timer’s numbers glow red. The rhythm is steady—sizzle, scoop, shake, salt, wrap.

People shuffle forward. A child stretches on his toes. “Curry sauce?” the woman asks, quick but not unkind. “Mushy peas? Bread?” Her hands are fast, wrists shining with steam. A builder in a high-vis jacket wants extra vinegar; an older couple share one portion, careful and smiling. The till pings; coins clatter; a ticket curls. The counter is sprinkled with white grains that crunch under elbows.

Outside, gulls hang like kites, eyes bright and greedy. Paper parcels leave in arms, warm and solid, leaking thin threads of heat into the cooling air. The night smells briny and good. Inside, the bell dings again; Friday keeps moving. The fryer’s light blinks; the staff keep going—tired, cheerful, a bit flushed. It isn’t perfect, yet it feels right: simple food, hot and fresh, by the sea.

Option B:

Evening. The hour when shop shutters rattle down and faces fold back into scarves. Tonight the lights failed on Maple Street; neon signs blinked once and surrendered, and the rain pressed its cold hands to the glass. In the dark, one place still simmered. Ms Khan's cafe held its breath and then breathed out again—candles, the blue whisper of a gas flame, and a pot that had been quietly bubbling since midday.

She lifted the lid. Steam rose and wrote soft shapes on the window. Cumin, garlic, ginger; the scent slipped through the door. Strangers drifted towards it like moths: a delivery driver in a neon jacket, a nurse with a tired smile, a pensioner with a paper bag of plums, a student with an empty purse. "No menu tonight," Ms Khan said. "Just lentil stew and bread." She dragged the tables into one long line and fetched bowls that did not match.

They hesitated at first. London teaches you to look away; we sit apart. But the rain tapped and the room was warm, and the first spoonful was like a small light in the chest. The driver passed a jug of water, the nurse tore the loaf, the student pulled salt from her coat, and the old man set the plums like jewels in the centre. Someone laughed at something ordinary; the sound spread.

Outside, the storm chewed at the gutters; inside, names began to appear. "I'm Amir," the driver said. "Nora," the nurse replied. The student, cheeks pink, admitted she had never tasted cardamom before. The stew thickened as it cooled, and so did their stories. When the street lights flickered and came back, no one rushed to leave. The meal had joined them by the simplest thread—one pot, many spoons—and as the rain softened, the strangers felt a little less strange.

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

Option A:

Friday evening. The neon fish above the doorway flickers and buzzes like an impatient fly; the sign throws a thin blue light on the wet pavement. Vinegar breath drifts out every time the door swings, windows smeared with steam and sea spray. Outside, gulls wheel and shriek, greedy shadows on the promenade; inside, the fryers hiss and spit, steady as the tide.

The counter is salt-streaked and a bit sticky; someone wipes it, then more grains appear like snow. Baskets rise and sink in the oil, up and down, up and down, carrying pale chips that turn golden. Batter blooms around the fish, crackling. A bell rings. Orders slide along a rail, numbers clipped to them, the laminated menu shining under flourescent light.

The queue bends like a rope laid on the floor. Families in sandy trainers, builders with bright vests, students with coins warm in their palms. Children press noses to the glass and draw circles in the fog. “Curry sauce?” “Scraps please.” “Large cod and two small.” The till pings, the rustle of paper, the clack of tongs keep time.

Grease blooms through the paper in small moons. The man at the fryer shakes salt like a quick snowfall, then a sting of vinegar: breath catches, eyes water. Packets pass—warm parcels—and the door opens and shuts, opens and shuts, letting in a slice of cool sea air. Outside, people eat on the wall; gulls inch closer. For a blink, the hum lowers, almost calm.

Option B:

Steam curled from the pot in the church hall; it climbed the cold air and drew us in like a signal. Outside, rain hammered the pavement and made the street shine. Inside, lights buzzed and chairs complained.

I hadn't planned to stop. My coat was soaked through, my stomach empty, and my phone had died just as the bus failed to arrive. Other people drifted in: a taxi driver with his lanyard, a student with wet trainers, a woman with a pram that squeaked, an old man holding a newspaper soft as cloth.

Mrs Patel stirred and stirred, the smell of tomatoes, garlic and cumin folding together. She smiled; 'Sit, please. There's enough for everyone,' she said. Bowls went from hand to hand, spoons chimed on porcelain. The first mouthful was heat, then sweetness, then a pepper kick that woke me. It tasted like something familiar and new at the same time.

At first, we only ate. Then somebody joked about the rain, and someone else groaned, and laughter floated up—thin but real. Names followed: Yusuf, Irene, Dani, me. We told small pieces of our day, ordinary but precious; lost keys, late shifts, a birthday cake that tipped over on the bus. The hall didn't feel so echoey; the table felt longer. It wasn't a grand feast—just soup and bread—yet it loosened the knot of being alone. Outside, the storm carried on. Inside, our little city gathered, spoon by spoon, around the same warm bowl.

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

Option A:

Friday at the seaside, the fish and chip shop glows like a small harbour. People bunch in a shivering line; coats rub, coins clink. Gulls hang over the roof, screaming for luck, and the sea slaps the promenade. The window is salted and foggy, a blur of light behind it. Who could resist the smell? Vinegar rides the wind, sharp and sweet, and the promise of hot chips keeps everyone waiting.

Inside, the fryers hiss like tired dragons, steam curling up, lights flicking on the metal. The counter is sticky with salt; the menu lists: cod, haddock, pies, mushy peas. A bell pings, orders call out, backs bend in habit. Friday—busy. Paper rustles and is rolled, then pushed across with a nod. The till coughs open. The shop smells of oil and damp coats; it smells of home, and baskets rise and fall in a slow, steady beat.

Meanwhile, the customers drift like little waves. A boy in sandy trainers counts a warm coin; a woman with a pram says, two cod, two chips. The man in the hi-vis laughs. Salt falls like snow. The door beats open and shut, open and shut, and the sea answers.

Option B:

Steam hung in the community hall and fogged the windows. Outside, rain wrote lines on the pavement; inside, the air smelt of garlic and warm bread. It was a long table, plastic chairs, a pot that kept on bubbling.

Tom set down the dented pot, tomato stew from his nan’s reciepe. He had pinned a poster to the noticeboard: Free meal, all welcome. Now strangers drifted in like lost leaves. He hesitated—just for a second—before ladling bowls.

A man with paint on his sleeves. A woman with a baby asleep on her shoulder. Two teenagers who looked at their phones more than the room, and old Mrs Khan from the flat above the launderette. No one was sure where to sit. Spoons clicked.

“Smells good,” someone murmured. “Thanks,” Tom said, too quick. At first, it was quiet. Then a loaf went round, hands bumping, butter soft and a little messy. Someone laughed. Someone asked, “What’s in it?” and he tried to list the herbs, he got the words wrong but it didn’t matter.

Soon, stories came with the steam: buses missed, jobs lost, jokes shared. The stew wasn’t special, thick and red, but the room warmed, and the strangers felt a bit less strange.

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

Option A:

The shop is small by the sea. The window is steamed and the counter has white salt lines. The fryers hiss and spit like the tide. It is Friday and it is busy, people in coats stand in a bent line and they talk and the seagulls yell outside. The smell of hot oil and vinegar is strong and sweet, it sticks on my face and in my hair.

The lady at the till calls numbers, she keeps tapping and saying next, next. A man in a paper hat shakes the basket and the chips fall, the steam goes up and up, back and forward. A boy tips too much salt, it falls like snow on the floor, his mum says stop but he dont.

The door bell rings when it opens and shuts. I wait with 42. I blow on the chip like a little fire, and the sea talks on.

Option B:

Evening. The hall smelled like onions and warm bread and the windows are steamed up. Chairs scraped on the floor. I held the big spoon, it felt heavy and the pot hummed on a blue flame. The steam went up like ghosts.

The door opened, then shut, then opened again.

People came in. An old man, a woman in a red coat, a boy with muddy shoes. They did not look at each other at first, just their feet and the bowls on the table. I thought, we are strangers, but the stew is the same for everyone. The bread was soft and warm, it tore easy between our hands.

I ladled stew, it made a heavy plop in each bowl and the smell moved out like a blanket.

Who are you I wanted to ask. I said, sit anywhere you like. The room tried to breath while the cold waited outside.

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

Option A:

The shop is small and hot, the fryers hiss and spit. It smells like salt and fish, my eyes water. There is people coming in on Friday, they are loud and they ask for large chips and curry, the bell goes ping! The counter is streaked with salt and greese and a wet cloth, the paper is stacked in a tall pile. I hear seaguls shout outside they want a bite. The cook drops baskets, again and again, he shakes them, he shouts order up! My money is sweaty in my hand I wait, I am hungry, the steam fogs the glass and the floor is sticky and it squeeks.

Option B:

Evening. The hall smells like warm soup and bread. The tables are long and the chairs squeak. I hold a plate and I feel a bit shaky, I dont know anyone. A man with a red hat sits by me and a lady with a blue coat sits too, a baby cries somewhere. We pass bowls and the spoon is hot, steam goes in my face. Outside a bus rumbles past and lights flash, I think of home for a second. We say our names, we say hello. We are strangers but we eat together. It is simple but good, and we look at each other and smile.