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 Who wished to see the costly manufacture?: The Emperor himself – 1 mark
• 1.2 Who had already admired the cloth?: The two honest men – 1 mark
• 1.3 Whom did the Emperor go to?: The crafty impostors – 1 mark
• 1.4 What was still not passed through the looms?: A single thread – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 61 to 80 of the source:

61 “The Emperor's new clothes are ready!” And now the Emperor, with all the grandees of his court, came to the weavers; and the rogues raised their arms, as if in the act of holding

66 something up, saying, “Here are your Majesty's trousers! Here is the scarf! Here is the mantle! The whole suit is as light as a cobweb; one might fancy one has

71 nothing at all on, when dressed in it; that, however, is the great virtue of this delicate cloth.” “Yes indeed!” said all the courtiers, although not one of them could see

76 anything of this exquisite manufacture. “If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased to take off your clothes, we will fit on the new suit, in front of the looking glass.”

How does the writer use language here to present the weavers’ trick and the courtiers’ eagerness to agree? 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: The writer presents the weavers’ trick through the pejorative epithet “the rogues” and performative pretence “as if in the act of holding something up”, heightened by an anaphoric, exclamatory triad “Here are your Majesty's trousers! Here is the scarf! Here is the mantle!” and the ironic simile “as light as a cobweb”, making absence a “great virtue”; meanwhile, the collective assent plus concessive clause in “‘Yes indeed!’ said all the courtiers, although not one of them could see” and the deferential conditional “If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased to take off your clothes” reveal their eager complicity, while piling semicolons mimic the slick patter of a con.

The writer frames the fraud by labelling the weavers “rogues” and staging their pretence: they “raised their arms, as if in the act of holding something up”. That “as if” foregrounds absence while performing presence, making the trick theatrical. Moreover, the anaphora and tricolon in “Here are your Majesty’s trousers! Here is the scarf! Here is the mantle!” mimic an itemised fitting; the exclamatives hustle the audience into belief.

The patter then dresses emptiness in luxury. The simile “as light as a cobweb” conjures gossamer delicacy but also the spider’s web, hinting at entrapment. Furthermore, the paradox “one might fancy one has nothing at all on” (intensified by “at all”) is instantly recast as a selling-point: “that… is the great virtue”. A semantic field of refinement—“delicate cloth”, “exquisite manufacture”—legitimises the invisible, while the impersonal “one” universalises the expectation to approve.

The courtiers’ eagerness is sketched in the choral exclamative “Yes indeed!”, and the collective “all the courtiers” signals herd mentality. Crucially, the concessive clause “although not one of them could see anything” generates sharp dramatic irony, exposing self-preserving conformity beneath their praise. Additionally, the deferential periphrasis “If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased to take off your clothes” disguises an imperative in a courtly conditional, manipulating the Emperor through etiquette; doing it “in front of the looking glass” appeals to vanity and turns the fraud into spectacle. Altogether, ornate diction, patterned repetition and manipulative syntax present both the weavers’ audacious trick and the courtiers’ complicit haste to agree.

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 identify that the writer presents the weavers’ trick by labelling them as "rogues", signalling pretence with "as if", and using repetition/listing in "Here are your Majesty's trousers! Here is the scarf! Here is the mantle!" plus the simile "as light as a cobweb" and modal phrase "one might fancy one has nothing at all on" to sell the illusion. It would also explain the courtiers’ eagerness through the exclamative "Yes indeed!", the ironic clause "although not one of them could see", and the deferential register "graciously pleased", suggesting anxious conformity and flattery.

The writer presents the weavers’ trick through a pejorative noun and staged actions. Calling them “the rogues” immediately signals deceit, while “raised their arms, as if in the act of holding something up” uses an “as if” clause to show pure pretence. The repeated, exclamatory declaratives “Here are… trousers! … scarf! … mantle!” form a tricolon and create a brisk, confident tone that pressures acceptance. Their formal address, “your Majesty,” is flattery, lending authority to the lie.

Furthermore, the simile “as light as a cobweb” suggests fragility and near-invisibility, reinforcing the illusion. The hyperbole “one might fancy one has nothing at all on” pushes the claim to absurdity, yet the modal verb “might” makes it sound plausible. Adjectives like “delicate” and “exquisite manufacture” build a refined semantic field, disguising the fact that nothing exists.

Moreover, the courtiers’ eagerness is shown in the choral exclamation “Yes indeed!”, where the intensifier and exclamation mark signal eager agreement. The quantifier “all” in “all the courtiers,” contrasted with “not one of them could see anything,” creates dramatic irony and highlights herd mentality. Additionally, the deferential conditional, “If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased…,” with its formal register, shows obsequious compliance, while “in front of the looking glass” plays to vanity, ensuring they go along with the trick.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows the weavers’ trick by using a simile "as light as a cobweb" and describing how they "raised their arms, as if in the act of holding something up," which makes the invisible clothes seem delicate and real. The courtiers’ eagerness is shown by repeated exclamations "Here are your Majesty's trousers! Here is the scarf! Here is the mantle!" and their quick "Yes indeed!" even though "not one of them could see anything," suggesting they agree just to fit in.

The writer uses the noun “rogues” and a simile to present the weavers’ trick. Calling them “rogues” shows they are dishonest, and the cloth is “as light as a cobweb”, which makes it sound delicate and believable, even though nothing is there. Also, “as if in the act of holding something up” shows they are pretending.

Moreover, repetition and exclamations show eagerness: “Here are your Majesty’s trousers!… Here is the scarf!… Here is the mantle!” The courtiers echo “Yes indeed!”, even though “not one of them could see anything”, which is ironic and shows their fear of disagreeing.

Furthermore, the formal, flattering request, “If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased to take off your clothes,” is like a polite imperative. The long, respectful sentence pressures the Emperor, showing the weavers’ control and the courtiers’ willingness to agree. Therefore, the writer presents the trick and eager agreement clearly.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows the weavers’ trick by calling them “rogues”, using the simile “as light as a cobweb”, the pretence “as if”, and repetition like “Here are…” and “nothing at all on” to make the fake clothes seem delicate and invisible. The courtiers’ eagerness is shown by the exclamation “Yes indeed!” and “although not one of them could see”, which shows they agree anyway.

The writer uses repetition and exclamations to show the weavers’ trick. The repeated phrase “Here are…” and the exclamation marks make it sound real and exciting, even though nothing is there. The simile “as light as a cobweb” makes the fake cloth seem delicate, so the trick feels believable.

Furthermore, adjectives like “delicate” and “exquisite” make the clothes sound special.

Moreover, the courtiers’ eagerness is shown in “Yes indeed!” which is short and quick. It is ironic that “not one of them could see anything”, but they still agree, using polite words like “graciously pleased” to flatter.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Exclamatory announcement creates a triumphant, persuasive start to the trick, lending it urgency and authority (new clothes are ready).
• The narrator’s evaluative noun marks the deceivers, positioning the weavers as deceitful and untrustworthy (the rogues).
• Mimetic detail “as if” foregrounds pretence, the weavers acting out an invisible fitting to sell the illusion (as if in the act).
• Anaphora and tricolon in the repeated demonstratives build momentum and confidence, overwhelming doubt (Here are your Majesty's trousers).
• The simile rationalises invisibility, making absence seem a luxurious feature rather than a flaw (as light as a cobweb).
• Paradoxical claim veils the truth in praise, hinting at nakedness while sustaining the trick’s logic (nothing at all on).
• Value-laden adjectives flatter the product and audience, encouraging assent through refined, courtly taste (delicate cloth).
• Collective exclamation shows herd mentality and eagerness to conform, as all echo approval at once (Yes indeed!).
• The concessive clause exposes dramatic irony: they agree despite being unable to perceive anything (not one of them).
• Obsequious, formal register cloaks a bold imperative, manipulating the Emperor into compliance with the trick (take off your clothes).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace escalating dramatic irony across a staged sequence: the weavers did not pass a single thread, yet choric exclamations—Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!—and foreshadowing with for the approaching procession swell into the public spectacle under his high canopy in the procession. It would then analyse the structural pivot to the child's blunt But the Emperor has nothing at all on!, the truth whispered from one to another until collective, before the unresolved coda that the procession must go on now!, showing how shifts in perspective, repetition, and delayed reversal sustain the irony.

One way in which the writer structures the ending to create irony is by juxtaposing the Emperor’s private focalisation with public display, paced by repeated temporal deictics. The sequence—'And now the Emperor himself...' to 'And now the Emperor... came to the weavers' to 'So now the Emperor walked'—stages a ceremonial build-up. Inside this swell, his interior monologue, 'I can see nothing!... Am I a simpleton?', is set directly against his performative verdict, 'It has my complete approbation.' The focus then widens from Emperor to retinue to crowd, enlarging the spectacle of self-deception.

In addition, a cumulative, choric pattern intensifies the irony. The impostors’ mime is catalogued in parallel clauses—'pretended to roll... cut the air... sewed with needles without any thread'—and each feint is met by staccato exclamations: 'Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!' This refrain 'resounded on all sides'; the anaphora of praise quickens pace and normalises the absurd, so that the empty looms and the illusory 'train' are drowned out by the spectacle’s own applause.

A further structural feature is the late volte-face delivered through a sudden shift in perspective and tone. The unmediated utterance—'But the Emperor has nothing at all on!'—is given to 'a little child', whose innocence punctures the pageant; the truth then ripples—'whispered from one to another'—until 'at last' the crowd echoes it. Yet the denouement remains anticlimactic: 'the procession must go on now,' and courtiers 'took greater pains than ever' to carry nothing. This bathos leaves the ending frozen in performance, deepening the final, satiric irony.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the irony intensifies through escalation and repetition, moving from courtly praise of the "empty looms" and echoing exclamations ("Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!") to the public climax where a new perspective exposes the truth: "But the Emperor has nothing at all on!". It would also note the contrast between the Emperor’s private doubt ("I can see nothing!") and public pretence ("my complete approbation"), and the ironic resolution as he proceeds because "the procession must go on now!" while attendants pretend to carry it despite "no train to hold".

One way the writer structures the ending to create irony is by sustaining dramatic irony through contrast between private thought and public speech. The Emperor thinks, “I can see nothing!” yet says, “the cloth is charming.” This clear contrast signals the gap between truth and display.

In addition, cumulative repetition builds and intensifies the irony. The courtiers’ chorus of “Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!” “resounded on all sides,” and later “How splendid... What a design!” The patterned echo and short exclamatives quicken the pace, amplifying the absurdity as more voices endorse what is not there.

A further structural feature is the shift in focus and time, marked by “the night before,” “at last,” and “now.” The action moves from the loom-room to the public procession, building to a clear climax when the child says, “nothing at all on!” This turning point redirects attention to “the voice of innocence.”

Finally, the ending’s resolution is ironic: although exposed, “the procession must go on now.” The lords take “greater pains” to “appear” to hold a train. This resolution keeps the pretence going even after the truth, highlighting pride and making the reader reflect on collective foolishness.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might identify a gradual build-up of irony, with repeated praise of the empty looms like Magnificent! Charming! Excellent! leading into the public procession. It would then note the simple twist when the little child says the Emperor has nothing at all on, and he still thinks the procession must go on now!, showing how the structure exposes the pretence.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create irony is by telling us at the start that the looms are empty: “not pass a single thread,” “empty frames.” The reader knows the truth before the Emperor reacts, so there is dramatic irony. We expect a mistake while he smiles and approves.

In addition, in the middle the praise is repeated. Courtiers and crowd chant “Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!” and list the “trousers… scarf… mantle.” This repetition builds to the procession, so the irony grows: the more they describe, the more we notice there is nothing.

A further structural feature is the ending shift of focus and tone. A short line from a child, “the Emperor has nothing at all on!”, breaks the pattern and spreads. Placing this revelation at the climax exposes the truth, while the Emperor still marches on, which heightens the irony.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds irony by first showing everyone praising the "empty looms" with repeated cries of "Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!", then ending when "a little child" says he has "nothing at all on", so the earlier praise looks silly.

One way the writer structures the text to create irony is the build-up at the beginning, where everyone repeats praise like “Magnificent!” even though the looms are “empty”.

In addition, the focus shifts from the Emperor’s thought “I can see nothing!” to the big parade, and more and more people praise it, while we know it is nothing.

A further feature is the ending, when a child says “nothing at all”, people pass it on, but the last line shows courtiers still “holding up a train”, which keeps the irony.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening group validation primes dramatic irony, as courtiers publicly praise what is absent (empty frames).
• The Emperor’s private thought contrasts with his public claim, sharpening the duplicity at the core of the scene (I can see nothing!).
• Refrains of collective praise accumulate to intensify social pressure and the absurdity (Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!).
• A structural escalation occurs when the lie is institutionally rewarded, raising the stakes of exposure (Gentlemen Weavers).
• A night-time sequence of exaggerated, performative labour extends the deception and heightens the comic tension (without any thread).
• The prolonged fitting before the mirror delays the reveal, sustaining suspense within pageantry (looking glass).
• Choreographed pretence by attendants visualises emptiness as substance, reinforcing collective complicity (holding up a train).
• The shift from court to public procession broadens the audience, making the ironic spectacle communal (resounded on all sides).
• A sudden tonal pivot via a child’s blunt truth punctures the pomp and flips the crowd’s response (nothing at all on).
• The ending compounds irony as the show continues despite recognition, fixing the image of stubborn self-deception (must go on now).

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 the Emperor first pretends to see the clothes, his internal panic feels both serious and slightly funny. The writer suggests that the Emperor is more afraid of looking foolish than he is of being lied to.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the Emperor and his internal panic
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest his fear of looking foolish
• 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 largely agree, arguing that through dramatic irony and the juxtaposition of the Emperor’s panicked interior monologue — "I can see nothing! This is indeed a terrible affair! Am I a simpleton, or am I unfit to be an Emperor?" — with his face-saving performance — "Oh! the cloth is charming," he "smiled most graciously" and "on no account would he say" he cannot see — the writer shows he fears ridicule more than deceit, confirmed when, though he "knew that the people were right," he insists "the procession must go on now!," rendering his panic both serious and slyly comic.

In this extract, I largely agree that the Emperor’s first pretence is both serious and slightly funny, and that he fears looking foolish more than being duped. Andersen achieves this through sharp dramatic irony, the juxtaposition of inner monologue with public performance, and a satiric narrator who labels the swindlers “impostors” and “rogues” while showing a ruler guarding his image.

When he faces the empty looms, his thoughts splinter into exclamatives and anxious rhetorical questions: “How is this? … I can see nothing! … Am I a simpleton, or am I unfit…?” The piling of questions and the evaluative “terrible” and “unfit” signal genuine, status-threatening panic. Yet the comedy lies in the immediate mask: “Oh! the cloth is charming,” he says “aloud,” and “smiled most graciously.” This neat juxtaposition of private alarm and gracious exterior is telling: “on no account would he say that he could not see,” a modal absolute foregrounding reputation-management over truth. Crucially, he does not suspect deceit; he pathologises himself as a “simpleton,” so fear of incompetence eclipses any outrage at being lied to.

As the scene develops, the satire widens to implicate the court, intensifying absurdity and pressure. The tricolon of echoic praise—“Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!”—“resounded,” while everyone “strained their eyes,” a comic physicalisation of self-delusion. Despite the narrator’s fraud lexis (“impostors,” “rogues”), the Emperor decorates them with a “riband” and the title “Gentlemen Weavers,” a perverse honour rooted in dread of exposure. The weavers’ pantomime—“cut the air… sewed with needles without any thread”—is slapstick; the Emperor’s complicity is sobering. He turns before the mirror and asks, “Do my new clothes fit well?” explicitly “in order that he might appear” to examine them. Repeated performatives (“appear,” “pretended”) build a semantic field of display, reinforcing that image trumps honesty.

The procession crystallises this. Choric repetition—“Oh! How beautiful…”—sustains the illusion until a “little child” punctures it with the bald declarative, “has nothing at all on!” The narrator’s dry irony—“none of the Emperor’s various suits had ever made so great an impression”—sharpens the joke. Yet his reaction is gravely revealing: he “was vexed… but he thought the procession must go on now!” The concessive “but” shows face-saving still outweighs confronting the lie; even the lords “took greater pains… to appear” to hold a train, the intensifier exposing their frantic maintenance of appearances.

Overall, I fully agree: Andersen crafts a panic that is both satirically comic and genuinely anxious, and he positions fear of humiliation far above any concern about the deception itself.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the writer uses internal monologue, exclamations and irony to make the Emperor’s panic serious yet slightly comic: his thoughts 'I can see nothing! This is indeed a terrible affair!' and fear of being a 'simpleton' or 'unfit to be an Emperor' contrast with his public 'Oh! the cloth is charming' as he 'smiled most graciously' and proceeded 'under his high canopy' despite having 'nothing at all on', showing he fears looking foolish more than being lied to.

I mostly agree with the statement. When he faces the empty looms, his panic feels immediate but faintly ridiculous. His thought, “How is this? I can see nothing!” uses exclamations and rhetorical questions to signal urgent fear. The antithesis “a simpleton, or … unfit to be an Emperor” shows his worst fear is being judged foolish or unworthy. Yet he instantly performs, saying, “Oh! the cloth is charming,” and he “smiled most graciously.” This contrast between inner terror and outward poise creates dramatic irony: we know he sees nothing, so the gracious smile is comic, even as he calls it a “terrible affair.”

The court mirrors him: “Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!” echoes around in a tricolon of exclamations, building a farcical chorus of flattery. The Emperor even “presented the impostors with the riband,” an ironic reward that shows saving face matters more than truth. Repetition of “pretended”—“pretended to roll the cloth,” “cut the air,” “sewed with needles without any thread”—turns the scene into pantomime. The weavers’ hyperbole that the suit is “as light as a cobweb” so one might “fancy one has nothing at all on” is funny too, because it literally foreshadows his nakedness.

At the fitting, he keeps up appearances, asking, “Do my new clothes fit well?” and turning before the “looking glass” to “appear to be examining” them. The child’s blunt verdict—“he has nothing at all on!”—breaks the spell, and the whisper grows to a chorus. Crucially, though “the Emperor was vexed, for he knew that the people were right,” he decides “the procession must go on now!” That choice proves he fears humiliation more than being lied to.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: through contrast, repetition and dramatic irony, the writer makes his panic both serious and slightly comic, and satirises his terror of ridicule.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: At Level 2, a response would broadly agree, pointing to the Emperor’s serious panic in "This is indeed a terrible affair!" and status anxiety in "Am I a simpleton, or am I unfit to be an Emperor?", while noting slight humour when he "smiled most graciously" at "empty looms." It would say he fears looking foolish more than being deceived, using simple evidence like "on no account would he say that he could not see" and "Do my new clothes fit well?" to show he prioritises appearances.

I mostly agree with the statement. When the Emperor first pretends to see the clothes, his thoughts show real panic but the way he quickly covers it up is slightly comic. The writer uses his internal monologue and exclamations: "I can see nothing! This is indeed a terrible affair! Am I a simpleton...?" The exclamation marks make his fear sound urgent and serious. But the contrast with what he says out loud, "Oh! the cloth is charming," is funny, because we know he is lying. This dramatic irony shows he is more worried about being called "unfit" than about the weavers' trick.

Then the pressure increases. He "smiled most graciously" and gives the rogues "the riband... and the title," which shows he wants to protect his image. The repetition, "Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!" is exaggeration that shows everyone is scared to look foolish.

As the scene moves to the dressing and procession, the humour grows with the pretence: the courtiers "felt about on the ground" and "pretended" to carry a train. The Emperor asks, "Do my new clothes fit well?" while turning in the mirror, showing he cares about appearance. The child says, "he has nothing at all on!" The father calls it "the voice of innocence," and the Emperor "was vexed... but he thought the procession must go on now." That proves he fears shame more than the lie.

Overall, I agree: his panic is serious but also slightly funny, and his main fear is looking foolish.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree, citing the Emperor’s panic 'I can see nothing!' and 'Am I a simpleton, or am I unfit to be an Emperor?' to say he fears looking foolish more than being lied to. They might add he pretends with 'Oh! the cloth is charming' while looking at the empty looms, which is a bit funny.

I mostly agree with the statement. The Emperor’s panic feels real but also a bit funny, and he is more scared of looking silly than of the lie.

At the first moment, his thoughts say, “I can see nothing! This is indeed a terrible affair!” and he asks, “Am I a simpleton…?” The exclamation marks make the panic serious. But it becomes comic when he says aloud, “Oh! the cloth is charming,” and “smiled most graciously” at “the empty looms.”

The writer shows he fears looking foolish with “on no account would he say that he could not see.” He even lets them undress him and asks, “Do my new clothes fit well?” even though there are none. The word “pretended” for the weavers and the courtiers who “felt about on the ground” shows the lie, but he goes on with it: “I am quite ready,” and later “the procession must go on now!” It is also slightly funny when a child says, “the Emperor has nothing at all on!”

Overall, I agree to a large extent. He worries about being called a “simpleton” more than the trick, so his panic is serious, but the situation is also slightly funny.

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:

• Interior monologue with rhetorical questions → serious panic about status creates sympathy yet a comic edge → ("Am I a simpleton")
• Dramatic irony (thought vs speech) → he praises emptiness, making fear of looking foolish both clear and funny → ("Oh! the cloth is charming")
• Determined concealment of truth → prioritises reputation over honesty, showing fear of ridicule outweighs fear of deceit → ("on no account would he")
• Sycophantic chorus and exclamations → amplifies social pressure and absurdity, lightening the panic into satire → ("Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!")
• Misplaced honours for the rogues → values appearance and approval over truth, reinforcing his dread of seeming unfit → ("Gentlemen Weavers")
• Pantomime of craft with nothing → farce exposes collective denial that sustains his image-obsession → ("needles without any thread")
• Mirror-gazing and performative checking → focuses on seeming convinced rather than being so, evidencing image anxiety → ("Do my new clothes fit")
• Courtiers’ pretence to avoid “simplicity” → institutionalises fear of looking foolish, widening the satire beyond him → ("betray anything like simplicity")
• Public complicity tied to status → fear of being judged unfit mirrors his, sharpening the comic-serious tone → ("either a simpleton")
• Child’s blunt truth vs Emperor’s choice → he knows the lie yet clings to dignity; I strongly agree with the statement → ("the procession must go on")

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A food programme is inviting viewers to send in creative writing for a competition.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe the frantic energy of a kitchen during service from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about preparing for an important guest.

(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:

Steam blossoms from the stockpot, a ghostly flower the extractor devours; the strip-lit pass, its steel a narrow stage where heat is a spotlight and time, the ruthless director. The ticket machine rattles, then chatters out another order; paper curls, thin as onion skin, pegged into a bright, impatient line. Garlic sighs in butter; fat spits its quick opinions; metal sings. Knives tick, tick; green confetti of herbs rains on the board. The air smells of char and lemon and something indefinable: the clean, metallic breath of ovens.

At the centre, the head chef calls with stentorian rhythm that brooks no delay: "Four away—two bass, one lamb, one vegetarian; no dairy on two!" The brigade answers in chorus—"Yes, chef!"—part affirmation, part incantation. Tickets flutter like flags; hands claim them. Three imperatives rule: fire, plate, pass. Meanwhile, a junior stirs risotto with the concentration of a cartographer; it thickens, sighing. Above it all, the clock is a merciless metronome; the second hand snaps forward, unblinking.

Under the incandescent lamps, a saucier coaxes a reduction to a glossy, mahogany mirror—no bubbles now, just a shiver—then paints a dark crescent on the plate. Tweezers lift micro herbs; a palm hovers, feeling heat; the fish is set down, skin side up, an oblong of opalescent flakes. Smear, press, turn; wipe, turn; wipe, turn. The cloth’s corner catches a stray thread of sauce and erases it as if cleaning a mistake from a manuscript. A bell splits the air: "On the pass." Another. "On the pass!"

Meanwhile, at the grill, a steak speaks in sizzles; flames lick like impatient tongues, leaving crosshatched tattoos. Heat kisses knuckles until old burns silver into being. A pan tips; butter avalanches in; a thyme sprig cracks, releasing a forest into the air. The dish pit roars in counterpoint: trays collide, water hammers, plates shudder through the machine in steam. "Corner!" "Hot behind!"—warnings that keep bodies from breaking.

Because the clock does not negotiate; because a table of eight has just sat; because perfection tastes like one second more than necessary and one second less, nobody pauses. Who has time to think? The mind shortens into muscle memory—season, turn, baste; taste, fix, serve. It is, admittedly, a miraculous kind of organised chaos, sometimes too loud, sometimes a fraction clumsy, but utterly intent.

Then, almost stealthily, it ebbs. Tickets thin; the printer falls silent (and, surprisingly, stays so). Conversations, which have been fragments all night, grow whole. Knives slow; the pass dims; the heat recedes in amiable waves. The kitchen exhales its last breath—lemon, smoke, the faint sweetness of scorched cream. Plates are stacked; lists are made; hands, nicked and steady, finally still.

Option B:

Dusk. The house held its breath; every surface waited to be judged, every quiet corner suddenly conspicuous. Light sifted through the blinds in pale ladders, brushing along the skirting boards where dust settled like an admission of guilt. The clock insisted—neat, mechanical—a metronome tapping out the limits of my courage.

I ironed the tablecloth until it lay starch-stiff and docile; the iron hissed and glided, exhaling a clean ribbon of heat. Plates followed: white, thin, almost translucent—set precisely so the blue willow trees faced north (as though direction could guarantee grace). Knives shimmered under the lamp as I polished them, lifting each to the light; the smallest smear revealed itself with theatrical audacity, and I began again. Napkins, folded into simple fans, made a parade of quiet order along the table’s edge.

Meanwhile, the air changed. Lemon peeled under the grater released a sudden, bright sting; butter surrendered to sugar with a soft sigh; the oven light turned the tart into a small sun and then, judiciously, I shaded it with a new sheet of foil. A sprig of rosemary stood like a flag in a jar of water—my concession to greenery. Even the chairs—uncompromising, oak-backed—seemed to shift themselves a fraction closer, complicit in the staging.

She would notice everything, of course. She always had. “A house reveals itself at ankle height,” she used to say, running a manicured finger along a skirting board, triumphant at a grey line no one else would have seen. My mother could read a room the way some people read palms: faults, habits, omissions arising from the tracery of crumbs and the angle of a cushion. Eight years since we last sat at the same table; eight years folded into the drawer with the napkin rings. Tonight, at seven, she would arrive, punctual and appraising.

And what, exactly, was I preparing—the room or myself? I reheated the kettle not because the water needed it but because the sound soothed. I straightened the photograph on the mantel—us in heavy winter coats—and then, irritably, put it face down. If she saw the crack in the paint above the stove, would she see the fracture beneath it as well? If she smelled the lemon polish, would she catch the older, iron scent of argument that sometimes rose, unbidden, from these floorboards?

Still, I fussed: salt and pepper aligned like chess pieces; glasses spaced to the width of my hand; a tiny chip in the jug turned discreetly toward the wall. My reflection in the darkened window practised a smile that looked almost real. Butterflies—ridiculous, childish—beat inside my stomach, frantic as trapped paper.

At five to seven the house smelt of citrus and warmed pastry and something else—hope, perhaps—thin but unmistakable. Tyres whispered on wet road. Headlights slid, briefly, across the ceiling; the hallway inhaled. Her footsteps came—measured, unmistakable—and paused on the threshold.

The knock was gentle yet formal: three taps, a judgement politely wrapped. Every room leaned, I swear, towards the door, as if the whole house wanted to listen before I did.

I wiped my palms on the stiff, immaculate cloth and went to let her in.

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

Option A:

Heat climbs in visible waves, turning the air into a trembling veil; it presses up from the stove to the stern faces bent towards the flames. Stainless steel gleams like a brittle mirror, brightened by unforgiving fluorescent lamps that make the steam look like pale ghosts. Tickets spit from the printer and crumple into a curling ribbon; the head chef’s fingers pin them to the pass with a practiced snap. Knives chatter—tac, tac, tac—staccato and precise, and somewhere in the corner a timer trills, then falls silent, then trills again.

Orders arrive in a quickening tide: “Table twelve: two sea bass, one lamb, fire mains in five.” A chorus answers—“Heard! Yes, chef!”—and the room tightens by a notch, as if drawn in by invisible string. Oil shows a quick shiver; a handful of thyme is cast in, releasing a green, peppery breath. Metal kisses metal; tongs click; the first pan hisses a fierce greeting. The clock swallows minutes in greedy gulps, yet nobody looks; time is measured by bell, by breath, by the rate at which the printer stutters.

Movement becomes a dance that is both careful and urgent. “Behind.” “Hot.” “Sharp.” Bodies weave through narrow lanes, aprons streaked with reduction and smoke. Rubber soles grip the damp mats; there is always the peril of spill, the warning gleam of a fresh scald. The swing door breathes in and out, in and out, in and out, as servers slide through with muted apologies and empty plates. At the pass, the heat lamps cast a gold insistence, an ersatz sunset. The chef de partie lays a smear of beetroot purée—one confident stroke—then a bright snowfall of salt; tweezers place six micro-herbs as if they were delicate punctuation.

Smell is its own argument: the oceanic salt of searing fish; the clean, lemoned flash that cuts through cream; garlic, star-bright at first, then sweetly surrendered to butter. A sauce reduces to a lacquered gloss; it sighs as it thickens. Sugar begins to caramelise, amber edging to chestnut; the pan is tilted; a cube of butter foams and hushes the roughness. Beneath the clang and rush is a hum, the steady bassline of fridges, extraction, breath—controlled chaos, perhaps, though the phrase feels too neat for this unruly orchestra.

“Service!” A bell rings; plates—white moons—move along the rail with a clean clatter. The pass becomes a stage of small miracles and tiny failures (a leaf minutely off-centre, a sauce one shade darker than intended), yet the line holds. A door swings, the dishes vanish, and the room exhales—briefly. Another ticket flutters down. Another chorus: “Heard!” The rhythm returns and rises, relentless and strangely beautiful, until the last plate departs and the heat, at last, loosens its grip.

Option B:

Sunday. The day of rest; not today. Our house held its breath as sunlight slid across the floorboards, revealing what needed attending to: dust constellations, fingerprints ghosting the banister. The clock on the mantelpiece did not tick so much as tap its foot. I moved because it demanded it.

I began with the things that quieten a room: wipe, buff, align. The mirrors were polished until they pretended to be windows; the vase was centred with precision; chairs were straightened as if for inspection. The list, inked at dawn, bossed me about: baste the chicken; fold napkins; check the hallway bulb; set a sprig of rosemary by the sink. In the kitchen, steam coiled above a pot and smelled of garlic, lemon and a pinch of saffron—too extravagant? Maybe; but the air needed to speak before I did.

It was not only a dinner; it was an audition. Mrs Harrington was coming—patron of the scholarship, famed for noticing the unnoticeable. If tonight went well, a door might open. I pictured her gaze sweeping the room like a spotlight, catching on the chipped saucer I’d hidden under the sugar bowl, assessing not just the food but our preparedness, our steadiness, me.

Memory can be unhelpful. Last time I attempted this kind of serene competence, I scorched a tart to a bitter umber and tried to call it caramelised; my brother knocked over cranberry juice and the rug drank it greedily. We laughed it off—but later I replayed every clink. Today, I would not improvise flavour or luck. I measured rice as if counting coins; I tasted sauces with the seriousness of revision; I ironed the tablecloth, coaxing steam through stubborn creases until the cotton lay still.

‘Handshake,’ I told Noah, practising in the hallway. ‘Firm, but not frightening. Eye contact—two seconds. Maybe three.’ He wiped his palms anyway. I rehearsed my own lines in the mirror: Good evening, Mrs Harrington; I’m so pleased you could come. The smile looked rehearsed because it was; I tried to soften it. I added a sprig of bay to the centrepiece—too busy?—and removed it again.

At half past five, the house had found alert poise. Windows breathed lemon; the table shone; the oven hummed like a small engine. Tyres whispered on the wet road; a car door clicked. The bell rang once, clear as glass, and everything I had arranged seemed to arrange me. I drew in a breath and opened the door.

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

Option A:

Steam hisses; oil spits in sharp syllables; strip-lights smear edges with a hard glare. Pans clatter onto burners, lifted in a practiced dance, and air is thick with garlic, lemon, singed rosemary and hot metal. The fan drones like a stubborn bee; the printer chatters and coughs out tickets that curl. Time narrows. The first order lands on the pass: two sea bass, one steak medium, three risottos. A chorus stirs, and every station answers the call.

Yes, chef! Behind! Hot! The shouts ricochet off steel and tile; they become a rhythm, not quite music but almost. Knives tap a brisk tattoo on boards, and the scent of chopped chives rises bright as rain. Butter slides in a silvered puddle; it foams, it browns. I tilt the pan and the sauce slicks the spoon in a glossy river. The steak sears, then rests. The risotto demands patience, and we give it, stirring.

Meanwhile, the pass glows under heat lamps like a stage. Plates move through, bare, then dressed: a brush of puree, a fan of fennel, a scatter of citrus zest like confetti. Fingers work quickly; they hover, pinch, place. There is theatre, but also care—this is not chaos. The head chef's eyes scan; a nod sends a plate; a frown recalls another. A pan threatens to burn, and a hand snaps the flame lower before bitterness blooms. The dish lives or dies in seconds.

By now the room is a storm and we are small boats riding it. Sweat beads and slides; my apron is a map of stains I will scrub later. A timer trills; a server waits; a table of eight sits, and the printer spits a scroll. My shoulders tighten, yet my hands find the moves they know: season, taste, adjust. A slip—too much salt in the jus—and I counter with a squeeze of lemon that brings it back from the edge. The line breathes together, shallow but determined.

Then, for a moment, a hush. The bell taps; the dining room receives what we built at speed. Another ticket arrives. We reset and answer: Yes, chef.

Option B:

Morning leaned on the windows, pale and precise, as if it, too, were waiting. The house feels like a stage before the curtain lifts; dust motes drift in the shaft of light like slow confetti. The clock ticks out a metronomic warning. She is coming. Not just a visitor, but the person who will look at our house and decide if it is ready for more than us.

On the fridge, our list is pinned by a tired strawberry magnet: wipe surfaces; fluff cushions; hide the chipped mug at the back of the cupboard. I move from room to room methodically, a conductor without an orchestra, coaxing order out of our rooms. The kettle chatters; the vacuum complains; lemon polish blooms in the air until the place smells bright. I smooth the throw so its edges align precisely; I line up the shoes by the door in a small, meticulous parade. The windows get one last swipe, and the smear I had pretended not to see vanishes, obligingly. Meanwhile, Mum is a whirlwind of hairpins and good intentions, her heels clicking a nervous rhythm down the corridor.

We practise answers that catch on our tongues. Yes, we’re organised. Yes, I’m doing well at school. Yes, there’s a spare room—fresh bedding, neat drawers, a window that looks out across a square of sky. I try out a smile in the hall mirror and it looks borrowed, so I try again, softer. Mum opens and closes cupboards a final time, as though the guest can read chaos in the hinges. Will she see the value in our carefulness, or the need beneath it? Will she notice the scratch in the skirting board, the way we stand a little too straight?

Time, suddenly, slips into a sprint. The clock’s hands seem louder; the room seems smaller. Biscuits go on the good plate; tea bags wait in a row, like tiny soldiers—first impressions matter. I change the water in the jug so the flowers look fresher; the daisy heads lift as if encouraged. Clean. Calm. Ready, I tell the house, and maybe myself too.

The doorbell rings.

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

Option A:

Heat presses against faces; the air shivers with steam. Stainless-steel counters shine too bright, showing fingerprints, showing hurry. The ticket machine chatters; paper curls and flutters like pale tongues. The chef at the pass snaps the first order onto the rail. "Yes, chef!" bounces from wall to wall. The rhythm begins: sizzle from a pan, the quick scrape of a spatula, the steady knock-knock of a knife. It is loud and close and hot, and time already feels shorter than it should.

On the veg section, hands move in a neat rush, chopping parsley into a green snow that sticks to damp boards. Knives flash; onions release a sharp sweetness that bites the eyes. Oil ripples; when fish hits the pan, it hisses and blooms a buttery smell. Spoons clink, pans clatter, lids rattle; metal speaks in staccato. The pass—a strip of hard light—glares. Plates wait; a squeeze bottle draws a glossy circle, and a cook drags it into a smooth line with the back of a spoon.

Orders stack; tickets make a thin, white forest. The head chef calls times, voice clipped and steady, a thread pulling everyone tighter. Someone over-reduces a sauce; it stings the nose, acrid, almost burnt, but not quite. "Two lamb, three cod, one veg!" she calls. "Heard!" replies the room, together, almost like a small choir. Sweat beads along brows; sleeves cling. Tweezers hover, then set tiny herbs against the shine of a fillet. A leaf falls, then another; they are corrected, again and again, until it looks right.

There is beauty inside the rush: a rough choreography that somehow holds. The bell rings; hands lift; a plate glides away and vanishes. Nobody watches it go. The next order shivers out of the machine, and the kitchen leans forward, ready and alive.

Option B:

Morning light slid under the front door and spread across the hallway, picking out dust like guilty confetti. The house held its breath. I pressed polish into the wood and worked in small circles until the table shone; my reflection wobbled, pale, serious.

There were two hours until Mr Harrington arrived. He was the scholarship man who would decide if all those late nights and worn-out notes were worth it. The list balanced on the mantelpiece like a warning. So much to do: sweep the path, iron the white tablecloth, arrange the flowers so they looked casual but not too casual. My hands felt too big, then too small; a clumsy pair of birds.

The clock nagged from the kitchen—tick, tick, tick—while the kettle began to hiss. Lemon cleaner cut the air. Mum moved quickly, smoothing cushions that looked already smooth. “You’re doing great,” she said, but I could hear the strain under the smile. “He’ll be impressed.”

“What if he isn’t?” The question fell out before I could stop it. What if he saw the crack in the ceiling or the scuff on my shoes or the way my voice sometimes trembled for no good reason?

I ran a cloth over the picture frames, straightened the piano stool, wiped the keys. They were cool and neat under my fingers, a row of teeth waiting to bite. Outside, a gull screeched and the bin lorry growled by; the house shivered.

“Flowers,” Mum called. “Don’t forget the flowers.”

I cut the stems too short by accident—stupid—and forced them into the vase. Water sloshed.

When I finally stepped back, the room looked almost perfect. Almost. Then the oven coughed a black ribbon of smoke, the smoke alarm stirred itself awake, and the doorbell rang, sharp as a note I wasn’t ready to play.

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

Option A:

Heat hangs, a heavy blanket over steel counters. Lights glare. Pans spit and shout; oil pops like tiny fireworks. The air is wet with steam and the sweet-sharp smell of garlic and lemon. Knives clicking, boards thumping, doors slamming. The kitchen breathes fast. It is a heart beating too quick, an engine pushing. Orders pin to a rail and flutter, flimsy white flags. Someone shouts 'Behind!' and someone else says 'Yes, Chef'. The words bounce, hot and metallic, around the room. 'Hot!' 'Corner!' All the while, the clamour is constant.

At the pass, a plate waits, pale as the moon, ready to be dressed. Hands hover, stained with beetroot pink and turmeric gold. A squeeze of sauce draws a bright ribbon; herbs sprinkle down like green rain. The head chef calls times, a steady drum: 'Two salmon, one risotto—fire now.' The rhythm gets into your bones. The knife moves in a quick staccato, dice-dice-dice, and the pan answers with a hiss. Steam blurs faces; sweat beads line foreheads, salt and focus.

Then chaos tips. A sauce boils over, a towel drops, a plate almost slips, nearly. For a second the whole room holds its breath… and then it steadies. A new towel, a clean edge, the dish is saved. The bell rings; the plate glides away like a boat leaving a busy harbour. More tickets slide down, more voices rise. It is frantic but somehow controlled, like a wild orchestra that knows the tune. For a moment, a tiny moment, there is calm—until the next order hits.

Option B:

Evening. The hour when lamps blink on and kitchens hum; when curtains seem to stand to attention and the house holds its breath. The lemon polish stung my nose and the floor shone back a wobbly version of me as the clock ticked us towards seven.

Meanwhile, I moved from room to room, a little parade. In the hall, I lined up our shoes like soldiers—heels together, toes forward. In the lounge, I puffed cushions until they sat up straight. After that I folded napkins into triangles, sharp as sails, and set the good plates. They were heavy and pale; they winked under the bulb. Would he see the scratch on the skirting board or the crack in Mum’s vase? I polished a glass until it squeaked. The cat strolled in and shed on the sofa. Typical.

Mum steamed her dress; the kettle breathed; the radio whispered a song that tried to calm us. My brother hovered with a tray he kept sampling. I practised my smile in the mirror. It looked too stiff, then too big, then almost right.

Because Mr Harrow—Mum’s new manager—was coming for dinner, and first impressions matter. I placed the last fork straight, exact; it shifted and I shifted it back. Outside, a car slowed. The bell rang.

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

Option A:

The kitchen hums, no, it shouts. Pans hiss; lids rattle; knives tap-tap-tap on the board. Steam lifts in pale ribbons and the air is wet with heat - fierce and close - that sticks to skin. The ticket machine spits and spits. Only the orders matter: small white slips flapping like trapped birds. Service! someone calls, again and again. Oil pops, garlic bites the nose. “Two salmon up?”—“Yes, chef,” the line replies, voices overlapping, as if the room has one fast heart.

Meanwhile a chef bends over the plate, careful but hurried. A spoon drags a bright line of sauce; a thumb presses a leaf into place—a tiny green flag. The steel counter is cold, their hands are hot, it almost stings, the timer beeps, it keeps beeping. Another pan flares and someone laughs, a short, nervous laugh. The fryer crackles like rain on tin. “Behind,” “hot,” “yes chef.” Movements blur; shoulders bump, nobody stops. The energy feels like electric, sparking at elbows.

Then the plates go to the pass and the lamps glow orange. For a breath it slows, a tiny pause, a held note, and the kitchen finds its rythm. But the printer clicks again; the rush returns, loud and ordinary and endless.

Option B:

Morning crept along the kitchen tiles, turning the crumbs to tiny stars. Today wasn’t normal. The important guest was coming, and the house felt like it was holding its breath. I ran my finger along the shelf and saw a pale stripe of dust, a rude line, and I wiped it away fast. Everything had to be right. Or as right as we could make it, with the clock ticking louder than usual.

First, the table: cloth stretched tight like a drum, plates centred, knives and forks straight as soldiers. Then the flowers—a careful arrangement of spring colours— stood in the middle, trying to look calm. The kettle sang; the iron hissed like a small animal. Lemon polish stung my nose and made the wood gleam. What if she noticed the scratch by the chair? We didn’t have new chairs, but we had effort. Me and Mum kept moving, not talking much, just working.

Finally, I checked myself in the hallway mirror—shirt tucked, hair mostly flat. My hands were shaking, a small earthquake inside me. The soup simmered, the candles waited, the house smelled of lemons and heat. Almost ready… almost.

The doorbell rang.

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

Option A:

The kitchen is hot and bright. Steam sticks to my face and the lights is hard on my eyes. Pans bang, bang, and water hisses up like a angry cat. The steel counter is cold but also sticky, it shines, it shows every drop. Hands move fast, faster, fastest.

My heart does it too.

The chef bends over a plate. He pinches green leaves and lets them fall like rain, he whispers the order and someone shouts Service! and the bell goes ting.

Feet slide, bodies squeeze by, shoulders hit then sorry then gone. Knives tap like clocks. I smell lemon, butter, smoke, and onions. It is a drum, it is a train, it is a storm in a box. I wipe a plate, I wipe, I wipe, its never clean. Pans crash and a laugh comes out but it is not funny, it is nerves and the room moves. Then a breath, then it starts again.

Option B:

Morning. The house was quiet and a bit cold. Today an important guest was coming. My hands felt shaky, like thin twigs in wind. I looked at the table, it looked wrong, the cloth had a stain and a crease. It had to be right.

I wiped the table, wipe wipe, like I could rub away my nerves. I put plates down, white like the moon. I swept crumbs, there was crumbs everywhere, and the brush made a soft hush sound on the floor. I opened a window and the air came in and pushed the curtains like little boats.

Mum said, keep going, its fine, but I kept seeing dust. I lined up the forks and I tried to smile. Who was I kidding? I wasnt ready. Time ran fast, like water, I could feel it on my back.

The door bell didnt ring yet but I could hear it already.

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

Option A:

It is hot in the kitchen, too hot. Pans bang and oil hiss and jump. The air is thick like steam and sweat. Someone shouts and the ticket machine spits small paper, more and more, more and more. Knives chop chop on the board, metel spoons clatter. My hands are wet, the plate slides, I grab it because it will fall and break. We move back and forth back and forth, shoulders bump, sorry, no time. The bell rings ding ding and I run. Sauce runs, we wipe it, it runs again. Shoes squeek on the floor. I can taste salt and smoke. Time feels fast and stuck.

Option B:

Today was meant to be big. An important guest was coming to our house, like a big boss. I look at the dirty plates and I wipe them. The table is wobbly and I push a book under it, that kind of works. We was cleaning fast, me and Mum, but the clock is slow, it ticks loud and I feel my hands shake. I put out cups, the good ones, not the cracked one. The dog runs in and jumps on the sofa, I say no, get off, please. I think about my shoes for school tomorrow. I sweep crumbs, will it look nice?