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 Where had the narrator been for about ten minutes?: the top of Helseggen – 1 mark
• 1.2 As the old man spoke, what did the narrator become aware of?: A loud, gradually increasing sound – 1 mark
• 1.3 For approximately how long had the narrator and the old man been at the top of Helseggen?: About ten minutes – 1 mark
• 1.4 Who is speaking when the narrator first becomes aware of the loud, gradually increasing sound?: The old man – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 40 of the source:

1 We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, to which we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we had caught no glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from

6 the summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie;

11 and at the same moment I perceived that what seamen term the chopping character of the ocean beneath us, was rapidly changing into a current which set

16 to the eastward. Even while I gazed, this current acquired a monstrous velocity. Each moment added to its speed—to its headlong impetuosity. In five minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed

21 into ungovernable fury; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred into a thousand

26 conflicting channels, burst suddenly into phrensied convulsion—heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the eastward

31 with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes except in precipitous descents. In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical

36 alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks of foam became apparent where none had been seen before. These

How does the writer use language here to show the sea changing and the noise building? You could include the writer’s choice of:

• words and phrases
• language features and techniques
• sentence forms.

[8 marks]

Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)

Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively trace how escalating imagery and form build noise and show change: the simile 'moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes' develops the 'gradually increasing sound', while violent personification and dynamic lexis—'lashed into ungovernable fury', 'seamed and scarred'—mark the shift from a 'chopping' surface to 'monstrous velocity' and 'headlong impetuosity'; onomatopoeia and relentless participles in 'heaving, boiling, hissing', the dash-linked accumulation 'gyrating in gigantic and innumerable vortices', and long, multi-clausal sentences mimic the intensifying uproar before a tonal pivot to 'grew somewhat more smooth' as 'whirlpools, one by one, disappeared', leaving 'prodigious streaks of foam' as a visual residue of sound.

The writer orchestrates a sonic crescendo with an auditory simile: the “gradually increasing” moan “like… a vast herd of buffaloes.” The animalistic comparison magnifies scale and menace, while the plosive b in “burst… buffaloes” helps to render a rumbling, bodily sound. Adverbs such as “gradually” and “rapidly” chart the acceleration of both noise and motion, as the “chopping” sea “changing into a current” signals a shift from irregular agitation to a single, gathering force.

Furthermore, hyperbole and personification intensify the transformation. The current “acquired a monstrous velocity,” and “Each moment added to its speed—to its headlong impetuosity,” the dash enacting a breathless lurch. Violent lexis—“lashed,” “ungovernable fury”—casts the sea as a creature in rage, while “the main uproar held its sway” personifies the noise as sovereign, ruling the straits. The metaphorical “bed of the waters” that is “seamed and scarred” implies deep, inflicted damage, suggesting a history of turbulence now erupting.

Moreover, the writer layers on onomatopoeia and present participles to thicken the soundscape: “heaving, boiling, hissing” crackles with sibilance, then “gyrating… whirling… plunging” sustains relentless, continuous motion. The asyndetic listing framed by dashes produces a tumbling, cumulative syntax that mimics the sea’s surge. Superlatives of scale—“gigantic and innumerable vortices,” a “rapidity” found only in “precipitous descents”—convey an unnatural, waterfall-like roar.

Additionally, temporal markers—“In five minutes… In a few minutes more”—underline rapid, dramatic change. The sea “grew somewhat more smooth,” whirlpools “disappeared,” yet “prodigious streaks of foam” linger: visual residue that suggests the noise has peaked and subsides, a contrast that makes the preceding crescendo feel all the more overwhelming.

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 the growing noise through simile and sound imagery—“gradually increasing sound” “like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes” and onomatopoeic “hissing”—explaining that this makes the sea seem animalistic and ever-louder. It would also explain how powerful verbs and sentence forms show change: “acquired a monstrous velocity,” “lashed into ungovernable fury,” and the dash-listed “—heaving, boiling, hissing—” in long, piling sentences create pace and chaos before the calmer shift in “the general surface grew somewhat more smooth” and “the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared.”

The writer uses a simile to build the noise: “a loud and gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes”. The adjective “gradually” and the simile evoke a swelling, animal roar, suggesting the sea grows wilder. “Moaning” conveys a low, continuous sound, creating tension as the noise builds, and the “chopping” sea “rapidly changing into a current” signals the start of transformation.

Moreover, personification and hyperbole show the sea changing violently. The sea is “lashed into ungovernable fury” and the “main uproar held its sway”, giving it agency and anger. The waters are “seamed and scarred”, a metaphor that makes the ocean seem wounded and transformed. The noun phrase “monstrous velocity” and “headlong impetuosity” exaggerate speed, while the dynamic verbs “whirling and plunging” show relentless motion to the eastward.

Furthermore, the list “heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating” uses present participles and onomatopoeia (“hissing”) to intensify sound and chaos. The long, flowing sentence with dashes and semicolons mirrors the surge. Additionally, contrast marks change: “another radical alteration”, the surface “more smooth” and “whirlpools... disappeared”, while “prodigious streaks of foam” show a noisy aftermath. Altogether, the sea builds then shifts.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies the simile like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes to show the noise building, and explains that strong verbs/adjectives like monstrous velocity and lashed into ungovernable fury show the sea changing from chopping to violent. Notes the list and sound words heaving, boiling, hissing to create loud, chaotic movement, and the later contrast in grew somewhat more smooth and whirlpools, one by one, disappeared to suggest it begins to calm.

The writer uses a simile to build the noise: the “gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes” makes the sea seem loud and animal-like. This helps the reader hear the roar getting bigger as the scene changes.

Furthermore, powerful words and phrases show the sea changing pace: “monstrous velocity” and “ungovernable fury” suggest the water is wild. The short line “Each moment added to its speed” shows it building every second. Personification in “the main uproar held its sway” makes the noise feel in control.

Moreover, the list of verbs and onomatopoeia “heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating” creates chaotic movement and harsh sound. The dash and long sentence mirror the rush. Finally, the change is shown again when it “grew somewhat more smooth” and “whirlpools… disappeared”, with “prodigious streaks of foam” showing the aftermath.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses a simple simile and describing words to show the noise building, like "a loud and gradually increasing sound" and "like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes upon an American prairie." Basic action words in a list, "heaving, boiling, hissing," and phrases such as "a monstrous velocity," then "somewhat more smooth" and "whirlpools, one by one, disappeared" show the sea changing from wild to calmer.

The writer uses a simile to show the noise building: "like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes." This makes the sound seem louder and wild. Moreover, adjectives and verbs show the sea changing, for example "rapidly changing" and "monstrous velocity," which suggests it gets faster. Furthermore, the list "heaving, boiling, hissing" shows movement and the onomatopoeia "hissing" makes the noise. The personification "lashed into ungovernable fury" makes the sea seem angry. Additionally, later it "grew somewhat more smooth" and "whirlpools... disappeared," which shows the sea changing again. Therefore, the writer shows the sea changing and the noise growing.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Structural delay then sudden reveal heighten shock and initiate the change as the sea erupts into view: burst upon us
• Auditory simile makes the noise vast and bestial, suggesting a low roar that swells: moaning of a vast herd
• Technical lexis marks transition from surface chop to a driven force, signalling the shift in state: chopping
• Intensifying choices present speed as abnormal and threatening, amplifying the sense of mounting power: monstrous velocity
• Additive syntax and the dash show step-by-step escalation, layering urgency and momentum: headlong impetuosity
• Violent personification implies loss of control and a dominating clamour, as if sound rules the scene: lashed into ungovernable fury
• Asyndetic participles and onomatopoeia create relentless rhythm and harsh sibilance, mimicking the hiss and boil: heaving, boiling, hissing
• Scale and focus via place-names expand the disturbance yet pinpoint the loudest centre of action: between Moskoe and the coast
• Bodily metaphor and sibilance make the sea feel wounded and turbulent, intensifying its fierce disturbance: seamed and scarred
• Structural pivot signals change over time as chaos subsides into smoother surfaces and lingering residue: one by one

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how disorientation 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 chronology and a feint‑and‑surge pattern: temporal markers like "In five minutes", "In a few minutes more", and "Suddenly—very suddenly—" pace a deceptive lull ("the general surface grew somewhat more smooth") before the whirlpool "assumed a distinct and definite existence", amplifying the disorientation first felt when the sea "burst upon us". It would also analyse shifts in focus and authority—the move to embodied panic ("I threw myself upon my face"), delayed naming ("this can be nothing else than the great whirlpool of the Maelström"), and the late insertion of an external account ("The ordinary accounts of this vortex", "he says") that "cannot impart the faintest conception"—to show how perspective is destabilised.

One way in which the writer structures the opening to create disorientation is by manipulating pacing through temporal markers, prompted by the old man’s speech. From the delayed revelation that the sea "burst upon us from the summit," the narrator notices a "gradually increasing sound," then accelerates: "Each moment added to its speed," "In five minutes...", "In a few minutes more," before "Suddenly—very suddenly—". This accelerando, punctuated by time checks, repeatedly reconfigures the scene, so the reader’s bearings are unsettled; just as equilibrium is regained, the structure lurches, intensifying vertigo.

In addition, the writer engineers disorientation through shifts in focus and scale. The viewpoint widens "as far as Vurrgh," then zooms into the "jet-black wall of water," with triplets—"heaving, boiling, hissing"—and repetitions that mimic rotation. Even the land is destabilised: "The mountain trembled... and the rock rocked." This is abruptly interrupted by the clipped naming of the Maelström—a gear change from sublime chaos to matter-of-fact naming that jars and resets orientation.

A further structural feature is the mid-passage shift from immediate witness to meta-commentary and embedded secondary discourse. The first-person voice reframes the episode—"ordinary accounts... had by no means prepared me"—then inserts the quotation from Jonas Ramus. This expository interpolation, with measurements and sequencing ("intervals of tranquility... last but a quarter of an hour," "violence gradually returning"), paradoxically heightens disorientation: taxonomy cannot stabilise what we have seen. Cyclical patterning—vortices subside, foam recombines, another whirl "assumed" form—echoes Ramus’s ebb/flood cycle, denying closure and sustaining the reader’s bewilderment.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain that disorientation is built cumulatively: the sea first burst upon us with a loud and gradually increasing sound, then time markers (In five minutes, In a few minutes more) and intensifiers (Each moment added) accelerate events to the jolt of Suddenly—very suddenly— as the whirlpool forms. It would also note a structural shift in tone and perspective from the narrator’s panic (The mountain trembled; I threw myself) to detached quotation (he says) and evaluative contrast (magnificence/horror), which mixes immediate experience with second-hand account to unsettle the reader.

One way the writer structures the opening to disorient the reader is through a sudden shift in focus and accelerating pace. After “ten minutes upon the top”, the sea “burst upon us”, and a “gradually increasing” noise gives way as the current “acquired a monstrous velocity”. Temporal markers (“in five minutes”, “in a few minutes”) compress time, while “Each moment added to its speed” foregrounds escalation, so the reader loses bearings with the narrator.

In addition, structural contrast intensifies disorientation. The chaos “burst… into frenzied convulsion”, then “another radical alteration” smooths the surface before a larger vortex forms “Suddenly—very suddenly—”. This oscillation destabilises expectations. Listing and a dash — “heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating” — break the sentence flow, mirroring the spin and unsettling the reader.

A further structural choice is a sequence of focus shifts and perspective changes. The narrative zooms from panorama to the “jet-black wall of water” at “forty-five degrees”, then cuts to reaction and dialogue before a quoted account by Jonas Ramus with measurements “thirty-six and forty fathoms”. This switch of mode (immediacy to reportage), with parentheses and asides (“I am not sure…”), breaks linearity and deepens disorientation.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer withholds the sea until it burst upon us from the summit, then uses time markers like Each moment and In five minutes, the list heaving, boiling, hissing, and the sudden Suddenly—very suddenly— to speed up events and make it feel chaotic. It would also notice a shift to reaction (I threw myself upon my face) and then to a calmer quotation (The ordinary accounts of this vortex), a change in tone/perspective that adds to the disorientation.

One way the writer structures disorientation is through time markers that speed up the scene. At the beginning, the sea “burst upon us”, then the sound is “gradually increasing”, then “in five minutes”, “in a few minutes more”, and “suddenly—very suddenly”. This change in pace confuses the reader and builds panic.

In addition, the focus moves from a wide view of “the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh” to a close-up on the “jet-black wall of water”. The brief sentence “the rock rocked” and the trembling mountain break up the flow, making the movement feel jerky, which adds to disorientation.

A further structural feature is a shift in text type and perspective. Later, the narration stops to include a long quotation from Jonas Ramus, with facts about “fathoms” and “Norway mile”. This sudden change of tone interrupts the story and leaves the reader unsettled.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the sea burst upon us, then time markers like “in five minutes” and “In a few minutes more” show it getting worse until “Suddenly—very suddenly—” the whirlpool appears, so the build-up and jolt create disorientation. Afterwards there’s “another radical alteration” and a brief switch to quoted facts (e.g., “Between Lofoden and Moskoe”), which keeps the reader unsettled.

One way the writer structures disorientation is that, at the beginning, there is a calm start, then the sea suddenly “burst upon us”. This early change in focus from land to sea makes the reader feel unsettled.

In addition, time words increase pace: “in five minutes”, “in a few minutes more”, then “Suddenly—very suddenly—”. The list “heaving, boiling, hissing” and dashes make the movement confusing.

A further feature is a shift to reaction and dialogue, then a long factual quotation. This change in tone and focus from panic to explanation adds to the sense of being disoriented.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Delayed revelation from the summit withholds orientation, then jolts the reader with a sudden vista (burst upon us)
• Sound-before-sight ordering builds an unseen threat and uncertainty as noise swells (gradually increasing sound)
• Compressed time markers accelerate events, inducing a dizzy pace and loss of bearings (In five minutes)
• Step-by-step transformation of the sea from choppy water to a racing current heightens instability (monstrous velocity)
• Abrupt tonal reversal (chaos to momentary smoothing) unsettles expectations and resets the reader’s balance (another radical alteration)
• Fragmented elements recombine into a single dominant force, making change feel unpredictable and inexorable (the germ of another)
• Shift in scale from panoramic expanse to a precisely bounded vortex tightens focus and intensifies vertigo (more than a mile)
• Accumulative, dash-broken clause sequence mimics spinning motion and overwhelms processing (heaving, boiling, hissing)
• Sensory crescendo peaks in environmental and bodily upheaval, showing control slipping away (the rock rocked)
• After the climax, a register shift to reflective comparison and quoted authority deepens the gap between account and experience (by no means prepared)

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, the description of the whirlpool having a voice makes it seem like a living creature. The writer suggests that some forces of nature are like terrifying monsters that are beyond human control.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of how the hyena behaves
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the hyena
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively evaluate the writer’s viewpoint as convincing, analysing how personification and violent sensory imagery make the whirlpool a monstrous, uncontrollable being—“sending forth an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar,” waters “seamed and scarred,” a “jet-black wall”—and linking this to human powerlessness in “I threw myself upon my face” and ships “inevitably absorbed.” It may also nuance agreement by noting the structural shift (“Suddenly—very suddenly”) and brief “intervals of tranquility,” showing awareness of complexity.

I agree to a great extent that the whirlpool is rendered as a living creature and that the writer presents certain natural forces as monstrous and beyond human control. From the outset the sea acquires “a monstrous velocity” and lashes itself into “ungovernable fury.” Such personifying lexis immediately removes human agency and establishes a semantic field of violence: the current “acquired” speed on its own, and the adjective “monstrous” signals something more than natural—something creaturely and threatening. The asyndetic triad “heaving, boiling, hissing” layers kinetic and auditory imagery, the sibilant “hissing” evoking an animalistic, snake-like presence. Syntax accelerates with participles—“whirling and plunging”—to mimic the creature’s ceaseless motion.

The description then develops from dispersed vortices to the birth of a single entity. The foam “seemed to form the germ of another more vast,” a biological metaphor that frames the whirlpool as embryonic life. Through caesura—“Suddenly—very suddenly—”—the writer marks its emergence, which “assumed a distinct and definite existence.” This monstrous individuality is visualised as a “terrific funnel” with a “mouth”, zoomorphically suggesting a gaping maw. The interior is a “jet-black wall of water... swaying and sweltering”: tactile and visual contrasts conjure skin-like texture. Most tellingly, it “send[s] forth... an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar,” an auditory fusion of human pain and bestial aggression. The hyperbolic comparison that “not even... Niagara” equals this cry and the religious allusion in “in its agony to Heaven” intensify the impression of a living being suffering and raging.

The sense of forces beyond control is crystallised in the environment and the narrator’s submission. Even the geology quails—“The mountain trembled... and the rock rocked”—a neat polyptoton emphasising instability, while the narrator “threw [him]self upon [his] face,” clinging like prey. Although the whirlpool is named (“Moskoe-ström”) and later rationalised through Jonas Ramus’s measurements, this scientific register paradoxically underlines powerlessness: a ship “is inevitably absorbed... beat to pieces,” and any “intervals of tranquility... last but a quarter of an hour” before “violence” returns, as if the monster briefly sleeps and wakes. The narrator admits ordinary accounts “cannot impart the faintest conception” of either “magnificence” or “horror,” yoking the sublime to the monstrous.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. Through sustained personification and zoomorphism—its “voice”, “mouth”, “fury”—and through structural choices that chart its sudden “existence”, the whirlpool is figured as a terrifying, living creature. Human naming and measurement offer perspective but no mastery, reinforcing the idea that some natural forces remain monstrous and untameable.

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 that the writer presents nature as monstrous and beyond control, explaining how personification and violent imagery—an "appalling voice, half shriek, half roar," "monstrous velocity," and "ungovernable fury"—render the whirlpool terrifying, with ships "inevitably absorbed" and "beat to pieces." It would also note a measured counterpoint in factual detail like "between thirty-six and forty fathoms" and brief "intervals of tranquility," suggesting the power is awe-inspiring but partially knowable.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer repeatedly personifies the Maelström so it feels like a living creature, and he builds an impression of a terrifying, uncontrollable force. From the outset the current gains a “monstrous velocity” and “headlong impetuosity,” a lexical choice that frames the sea as wilful and aggressive rather than passive.

As the scene intensifies, the asyndetic list of dynamic participles—“heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating”—creates relentless pace and sensory overload. The onomatopoeia of “hissing” and the sibilance in “smooth, shining” mimic the sinister soundscape. Structurally, the description escalates from “innumerable vortices” to “the germ of another more vast,” then “Suddenly—very suddenly—this assumed a distinct and definite existence,” mirroring a creature taking shape. The whirlpool is given anatomy: a “broad belt of gleaming spray,” a “mouth of the terrific funnel,” and a “jet-black wall of water” inclined at a threatening angle. Calling it a “mouth” is clear personification that supports the idea of a predatory monster.

The auditory imagery that it sends forth “an appalling voice, half shriek, half roar” makes the sea sound like a tormented animal. The hyperbolic comparison that not even Niagara “lifts up in its agony” to Heaven intensifies this portrayal, attributing suffering and a kind of terrible agency to the water. Human vulnerability is emphasised by the narrator’s reaction: “I threw myself upon my face, and clung,” while even “The mountain trembled,” suggesting a force beyond human—or even geological—control.

The later factual quotation strengthens the threat: ships are “inevitably absorbed and carried down… beat to pieces,” and it is “dangerous to come within a Norway mile.” Although the “intervals of tranquility” hint at natural rhythms, they last “but a quarter of an hour,” keeping the danger dominant. Overall, I agree that the writer makes the whirlpool seem like a living, monstrous power that humans cannot master.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would mostly agree, noticing simple personification like the whirlpool’s "appalling voice, half shriek, half roar" to make it seem alive and monster-like, and giving basic evidence that phrases such as "ungovernable fury" and "inevitably absorbed," plus the narrator’s fear in "threw myself upon my face," show it as a force beyond human control.

I mostly agree with the statement. By giving the whirlpool a “voice,” the writer turns it into something alive and frightening, and suggests this force of nature is like a monster no one can control.

At first the sea gathers “a monstrous velocity” and is whipped into “ungovernable fury.” This word choice and personification make the water seem angry and alive. The violent list “heaving, boiling, hissing—gyrating” creates vivid, threatening movement. Structurally, many “vortices” fade and then “another more vast” whirl forms “suddenly,” as if a creature is being born. Its “broad belt of gleaming spray,” the “mouth of the terrific funnel,” and a “jet-black wall of water” describe body parts, so the whirlpool feels like a predator ready to swallow.

The clearest personification is the “appalling voice, half shriek, half roar,” an animal sound. The comparison with “the mighty cataract of Niagara” and the word “agony” are hyperbolic, making it seem beyond normal experience. Even the mountain “trembled,” and the narrator “clung” to the ground, showing human weakness. The quoted account adds that a ship is “inevitably absorbed” and “beat to pieces,” and it is “dangerous to come within a Norway mile,” which proves people cannot control it. However, there are brief “intervals of tranquility,” and the scene also has “magnificence.”

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Through personification, vivid imagery and scale, the writer presents the whirlpool as a living, terrifying force of nature, mostly beyond human control, with only momentary calm.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Level 1: Simply agrees that the writer makes the whirlpool seem like a terrifying living force, picking obvious phrases like “appalling voice, half shriek, half roar,” “monstrous velocity,” and “ungovernable fury.” May briefly add it is beyond control because ships are “inevitably absorbed.”

I agree that the whirlpool is presented like a living creature and a terrifying monster that people cannot control. The writer gives it a “voice” and shows its power growing through the scene.

At the start, the current gets a “monstrous velocity” and “ungovernable fury.” The writer uses strong adjectives and a list of verbs, “heaving, boiling, hissing,” to make it feel alive. The whirlpool then suddenly forms, “a circle of more than a mile,” with a “terrific funnel” and a “jet-black wall of water.” This imagery makes it seem huge and threatening.

The sound is like a creature: an “appalling voice, half shriek, half roar.” This personification makes it seem to cry out. Even the “mountain trembled” and the narrator “clung to the scant herbage,” which shows fear and that humans can’t control it. The account says a ship is “inevitably absorbed” and it is “dangerous to come within a Norway mile,” proving it is beyond human control.

Overall, I agree with the statement because the writer’s language makes the whirlpool feel alive and monstrous, suggesting that this force of nature is terrifying and far stronger than people.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward. Note: Reference to methods and explicit “I agree/I disagree” may be implicit and still credited according to quality.

AO4 content may include the evaluation of ideas and methods such as:

• Personification: giving the whirlpool a voice casts it as a sentient, terrifying creature, strongly supporting the idea of nature as monstrous and beyond control (appalling voice, half shriek, half roar)
• Hyperbolic comparison raises its power above known extremes, implying forces exceeding human benchmarks and mastery (not even the mighty cataract)
• Immense scale makes the phenomenon feel inescapable and overwhelming, reinforcing a monstrous, ungovernable presence (more than a mile)
• Environmental impact—land itself shuddering—suggests supremacy over humans and terrain, deepening fear of uncontrollable force (The mountain trembled)
• Violent kinetic lexis conveys relentless, feral energy, aligning the sea with a raging beast outside restraint (heaving, boiling, hissing)
• Structural shift from many eddies to one vast vortex implies a creature forming and escalating unpredictably, heightening dread (germ of another more vast)
• Predatory imagery of a “mouth” suggests devouring intent, making the whirlpool read as a monster rather than mere water (mouth of the terrific funnel)
• Human reaction—prostration and panic—shows instinctive submission, evidencing powerlessness before this natural force (I threw myself upon my face)
• Reported consequences for ships confirm lethal inevitability, indicating absolute dominance over human craft and effort (inevitably absorbed)
• Brief calms exist but are fleeting, so the threat feels ceaseless; this nuance still supports strong agreement that it defies control (but a quarter of an hour)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A local environmental group is publishing a newsletter and has invited creative writing entries from young people.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe people planting trees together from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about making a positive change.

(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 morning unfurls like a pale ribbon over the verge; breath ghosts in the air as people gather, gloved and bright in mismatched coats. Spades lean against a low fence like tidy sentries; a wheelbarrow, rim muddied, carries the dark, crumbly loam that breathes its mineral sweetness into everything. Somewhere a robin stitches sound into the hedgerow. Underfoot, frost loosens, and the ground, once stubborn, begins to soften—patient, receptive.

They move with a quiet choreography: measure the gap, score the turf, lift and turn, lift and turn. Soil clinks against metal; roots rattle softly in their black bags. Laughter arrives in small gusts, and steam coils from paper cups of tea. For a moment the wind hushes, and all you hear is the neat, wet exhalation of the earth opening.

A child kneels beside an older woman, the gesture shared. Small palms hover above the root ball, which rests like a compact heart in the bowl of the hole. The woman steadies the sapling with practiced tenderness; her gloves are freckled with mud, her breath a calm metronome. “Not too deep,” someone murmurs; “let the roots find the light.” Together they shake the soil, loosen the fine threads, ease the sapling in. Down and press, down and press: the rhythm teaches itself.

Beyond them the line extends—pairs and trios, strangers becoming a provisional family. Stakes are driven in with measured thuds; twine whispers round bark; a mallet rises and falls with ceremonial dignity. There is chatter about buses and school and last night’s frost. The field fills with ordinary music: the creak of a wheelbarrow, the click of a latch, the sudden clatter when a spade slips. It is perhaps a little early to call it a forest, but hope is voluble today.

The earth takes each offering and seems to sigh. Worms ribbon the loosened clods; a shy beetle surfaces and is admired as if it were a jewel. A girl with a fringe too long for her eyes pats the soil as if tucking a child to sleep; a boy pours water slow and ceremonious, watching it vanish—vanish into the thirsty dark. The saplings, slender, tremble; their buds are incipient commas, promising more to follow.

By midday, the line is a sentence curving towards the horizon, green punctuation punctiliously spaced. Boots are heavy now; hands ache in that good, uncomplicated way; mud sits in every crease, under every nail. When the last stake is tied, when the last foot presses its benediction upon the ground, they stand back and look. Years from now, shade will pool here; birdcall will overlap; the wind will read its long poem through these leaves. For the moment, though, it is enough—this small, deliberate kindness pressed into the patient earth.

Option B:

Morning. The hour when streets exhale and light rehearses itself across narrow rooms. Maya stood on the cold tiles and let the air—it smelled of rain, soap and something incipient—collect in her lungs. Today would be different; not with fireworks, but in the stubborn way a tide redraws a shore.

Her flat had become an anthology of postponements: letters addressed but unstamped, mugs with lip-prints like faint moons, a shoal of receipts curling at the edges. She could have deferred again—later, later—but a sentence from Thursday refused to dim: 'You're young,' the GP had said, 'but your numbers are not.' And yesterday, a stranger had offered her a seat. That small, mortifying kindness still prickled.

Begin with what you can hold, she thought. Two cardboard boxes (DONATE and KEEP scrawled on their sides) and the drawer yielded a miscellany—elastic bands, a green festival wristband, keys for doors she no longer owned, a pebble veined with white. Memory rose and subsided: the wristband hummed with a summer she wouldn’t repeat; the pebble from a beach where she had almost said the right words. She kept the pebble. She cut the wristband. The scissors bit; old noise fell away.

She worked; time, obedient for once, moved in clear segments. Dust lifted in filigree spirals and drifted towards the open window—tiny galaxies escaping. As the DONATE box filled with novels she would not finish, a lightness slackened loose. She laughed (a brief, surprised sound) and took a pen. On the back of an envelope she wrote a list: call Lila; cook food that doesn’t arrive folded in cellophane; walk to work twice a week; join the canal clean-up; plant rosemary in the chipped blue pot.

The door, when she opened it, made its traditional complaint; the hallway smelled of old carpet and someone’s spicy lunch. Mr Khan across the landing glanced up from his newspaper. 'Spring clean, Maya?' he said. 'Not only spring,' she replied, 'just a clean beginning.' She offered him a book. He weighed it, nodded. Kindness, she thought, could be a handhold.

Back inside, she laced her trainers—how new they looked, how falsely athletic—and hesitated at the threshold that wasn’t a threshold, only a thin page between the life she'd rehearsed and the one she was starting to write. Outside, the pavement gleamed; rain had polished the day. She fixed the list to the fridge, crooked but deliberate, and, because convictions deserve ceremony, set a sprig of mint in water.

Change, she realised, would not arrive as a fanfare; it would arrive as small, unglamorous gestures repeated until they made sense. She closed the window. She picked up the keys. One foot, then the other, into the day.

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

Option A:

Morning sidles across the field with a pale spring light; breath hangs milky; the thawed earth loosens under boots. Stakes prickle the ground like neat exclamation marks, and coils of twine loop around gloved wrists. The air carries a green, damp scent—petrichor and mulch, a hint of sap—and the metallic clink of trowels makes a quiet, industrious music. People stoop and straighten; coats rustle; a wheelbarrow complains along the path. Laughter flits, sudden and bright, then settles into the steady cadence of work.

A child kneels, knees damp, hands feathered with soil. She holds a sapling as if it were a fragile instrument, the root-ball crumbling like cake. An adult’s hand comes into the light—broad, patient—and presses a hollow into the loosened loam. “Wider than you think,” he murmurs. They measure with their palms, the small choreography of care, and the sapling’s roots dangle like soft calligraphy. The child frowns, then smiles; her thumbs coax the soil back. Press, press; smooth and firm; not too tight. Water darkens the circle into a deep bruise of earth.

Across the plot, others move in a purposeful scatter: teenagers with sleeves shoved up; a woman in a scarlet scarf; an elderly man who leans on a cane and tells stories of the elm that once guarded the old road. Someone makes a bad joke—“We’re rooting for you!”—and it earns groans, then grins. The barrow returns with compost, squeaking; shovels lift in small, shining arcs. Names are written on labels, inked carefully: hazel, birch, rowan. The rhythm becomes communal, like a heartbeat you begin to notice only when it is shared.

A breeze stirs, rucking the clouds; a robin perches on a spade handle, stern as a foreman. Soil slides under fingernails; a strand of hair blows across a face before it is tucked away again. They work without hurry, but not slowly, either—steady as a tide. What will these trees see when their branches are no longer skinny and shy? Exams, retirements, first bikes, last walks. The idea is both ordinary and astonishing: to plant shade you may never sit in, to send quiet green answers into questions you cannot yet ask.

By noon, the field is stippled with hopeful specks, each one staked and tied, each one sipping from a pooled saucer of water. Gloves are peeled off; palms are inked with dirt and tiny crescents of grit. The ground looks stitched, mended. They stand back and look and do not say much. Tomorrow’s canopy begins here—with a thumbprint, a laugh, and a promise.

Option B:

Dawn was quietly industrious: a pale wash on the horizon, a kettle breathing, the radiators ticking themselves awake. The street exhaled all at once; buses muttered, a cyclist cut a thin, gleaming line through the damp. Most mornings felt like corridors to hurry through. Today felt like a threshold.

On the table lay the evidence of the old habit—crinkled wrappers, a flyer I’d been meaning to put up, my own scribbled notes about “someday.” I lifted the canvas tote from its hook; the strap rasped against my wrist, bringing me back to now. Enough complaining, enough scrolling, enough waiting for a better neighbour, a better council, a better mood. There are only two choices: step over, or bend and lift.

Into the bag I packed, methodically: gloves, a bright orange vest, a roll of black bags, a bottle of water, plasters (just in case), and a small notepad in case anyone decided to sign up. My hands trembled as if I were about to go on stage; ridiculous, perhaps, but the thought of turning up alone made my stomach ripple. What if nobody came? What if they did?

Decision is a muscle; it strengthens when used. I locked the door—click—and pocketed the key. Outside the air had a metallic chill that cleared the mind; puddles held tiny skies that shattered around my shoes. Crisp packets feathered the edges of the pavement like weak flags. Yesterday I had stepped past them and thought later. Today I stooped.

The underpass was a palimpsest of colour, new paint flaring over old; names layered on names, the city trying to reword itself. At the noticeboard I pinned my poster with deliberate fingers. Community Clean-Up, 9 a.m. I checked my phone—8:12—and felt a small, treacherous wish to run home evaporate. A woman pushing a pram slowed. “Is that today?” she asked. “It is,” I said, and heard how steady I sounded.

At the park gate the grass glittered; dew beaded each blade as if the field had been stitched with glass. A fox slipped along the periphery, quick and amber, and vanished, leaving a purposeful quiet. I opened the first bag; it creaked. I reached into a nest of leaves and lifted a crushed can—light as an empty promise, louder—and the soft clatter into plastic made a clean, surprising sound.

For years I had waited for someone official to tell us how to do better. This morning, I was not waiting; I was beginning. The bench would still be cracked; the path would still be scuffed. But there would be less—less rubbish, less shrugging, less of the grey that had crept, uninvited, into my days. Footsteps approached. I straightened. And smiled.

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

Option A:

The pale morning hesitated above the field, a thin band of silver cloud torn where the sun tried to peer through. Around the taped-out squares, people arrived in clumps, their breath fogging; boots speckled with last week’s dirt; new spades crossing like bright Xs on the grass. The soil was damp and surprisingly forgiving; when the first shovel bit down, it made a soft, secret sound, as if the ground had been waiting.

At first, there was careful watching. A child in yellow wellies hopped from toe to heel, each bounce making a puddle shiver. Beside her, a man knelt, showing more than telling: his hands cupped a sapling’s root-ball—fragile, hairy, strangely heavy. They counted together: one, two, three. He lowered the young tree, and the earth accepted it. The smell of compost rose sweet and sour, a breath of something quietly alive. Roots spread like pale threads, feeling their way, almost shy.

Meanwhile, further along the row, an older woman with a scarf the colour of lichen pressed down with the flat of her boot, heeling the soil firm; her ring flashed, a small sun. Two boys argued about the straightness of a stake, their seriousness dissolving into laughter that scattered over the beds. A volunteer leader moved through the bustle, parceling out bundles—birch, hazel, rowan: each label clipped to a twig, like name tags on new pupils. A robin kept watch from a fence post, head ticking; when a worm appeared, it dipped and was gone.

Their method was simple: dig, water, lower, press, tie. Again. And again. The day found its rhythm—spade, splash, pat, knot—so steady it became music. A barrow squeaked and tipped; water slopped; everyone hopped back, laughing. Mud slicked across palms and cuffs, drawing dark crescents under nails. Somewhere, a flask clicked; steam curled—coffee, faintly bitter; the wind lifted a curl of hair and flung it into someone’s eyes.

By degrees, the field changed. Where there had been just open ground, a stitched line of saplings nodded, green punctuation marking a new sentence in the landscape. Leaves flickered like small flags; the breeze tugged at them, curious. Someone lost a glove and found it; someone else wiped a brown stripe across his forehead like war paint and then shook his head, grinning at the silliness. They spoke of shade, of birds, of summers not yet here.

In the end, they stood back. The sun had finally unbuttoned the cloud; light laid itself across the row. Together, they had planted trees—yes—but also a kind of promise.

Option B:

Morning did not arrive with fanfare; it slid under grey clouds and pooled along the kerb in silvery light. The plot behind the shops looked as it always had—nettles bristling, fence leaning—but when I set my boot on the soil a smell of wet cardboard rose, sour and strangely hopeful. I had brought gloves, a trowel, and a packet of seeds.

Change, everyone says, takes courage; mine felt like a warm coin in my pocket. I used to hurry past this lot—our neighbour’s arguments on the wind, my own excuses, Gran’s careful letters waiting at home. ‘Make something grow,’ she had written. After the funeral, those words stuck; they hummed at the back of every morning.

Today, I stopped hurrying. I pulled a black sack open; air snapped it into a wide mouth. Crisp packets, an old shoe, a tangle of cassette tape—one by one, things went in. The nettles stung my wrists; the trowel scraped on stones, jarred, then slid at last into a seam of dark, crumbly earth. Birds argued above me; traffic mumbled past; my breath found a steadier rhythm.

Mr Ahmed from the bakery watched me over the fence, flour on his sleeve like frost. ‘New project?’ he asked. ‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘Knock for water if you need it. Try rosemary—it forgives.’ He saluted and disappeared, the dog trotting after him like a comma.

I knelt and pinched the packet open; radish seeds rolled into my palm, pin-prick small. What did I know about gardens? Little. But I could press a finger into the soil, drop a seed, smooth it over; I could line stones to mark the row. Little by little, I made a neat bed out of the scrap of land the town had forgotten.

By the time the first cloud tore and the light grew warmer, my sack was full; my knees were damp; my hands smelled of green. Still, a path from the gate to the patch and a shy row of stones meant something had begun. It wasn’t loud, this change; it was small, specific, and—finally—mine.

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

Option A:

A chill morning; pale sky. The field behind the library turned to a temporary nursery. Flags. Shovels. Buckets. People gather with soft voices and warm breath; the air smells of damp earth and bark. The ground—dark, sweet loam—gives slightly under boots. A thin sun slips out and glints along the line of spades, and someone laughs, as though the light presses a smile on every face.

A child and an adult kneel shoulder to shoulder. The adult steadies the trowel while the child cradles a sapling; its roots are pale as thread, delicate as a secret. The hole is small but neat. When they tip water, the soil drinks greedily and shines. “Slowly,” the adult says, patient, and the child nods, tongue peeping with care. The gloves on the small hands look loose and important. They lower the tree, backfill the soil like brown sugar, and the earth sighs.

Around them other pairs repeat the careful ceremony: dig, set, firm, water. Teenagers grumble and grin; a man in a neon vest taps the stakes; an elderly woman with a flaming scarf reads names from a list. Buckets pass from palm to palm, a small river of help. Metal bites stone, then softens into crumb. Voices make a low chorus, and boots scuff, and at the edge a dog sneezes.

The saplings stand in a rough row like notes waiting for a tune. Their labels flicker; their skinny trunks shiver when the wind combs past. Mud freckles knees and cheeks. Someone takes a photo—someone else wipes a drip from a careful leaf. The future feels almost visible, a canopy drawn in faint pencil. Together, they press the last spade-flat pat; together, they step back. The field looks the same and not the same. We plant. We breathe. We go on.

Option B:

Morning arrived without fuss, pale and damp, sliding down the street like cold tea. The air smelled faintly of vinegar and wet cardboard. In the gutter, crisp packets and silver cans lay like squashed beetles. The bins at the end of our block yawned, lids crooked, as if they were tired of trying to keep everything in.

My trainers squeaked on the front step. I’d almost turned back twice. The whole job felt too big, too public. People would stare. Last night I’d written a plan on the back of an envelope: get up early; pull on gloves; fill one bag. A small thing, but a beginning. I tugged the thin blue gloves over my chilly fingers and breathed out a cloud that vanished quickly.

The first can was sticky. It left a ring on the tarmac, a faint circle like a bruise. Into the bin bag it went, a dull clatter that made a magpie call from the fence. Then a bottle, then a crumpled receipt, then a lost sock that I didn’t want to touch but I did. My bag began to swell, soft and heavy. A boy on a scooter watched, curious, and then kicked a wrapper towards me. “Thanks,” I said, and my voice sounded steadier than I felt.

Mrs Patel from the corner shop came out with a broom. “Good for you,” she called, warm as toast. She swept her doorway; I cleared the kerb. A man with a dog dropped a takeaway tray in my bag—he muttered sorry, and stayed to pick glass from the grass. Bit by bit, our street looked less grey, like someone had turned the brightness up.

By the time the sun pushed through the cloud, the pavement was cleaner; my head was too. It wasn’t perfect—there were stains and things I couldn’t shift—but the difference was real. The bag tugged at my arm, still only one, and yet it felt like a door had opened. Tomorrow I would bring more bags. Maybe a friend. Maybe two.

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

Option A:

Morning light leaks through the clouds as a cluster of people stand on a patch of grass by the pavement. Jackets zipped, gloves pulled on, they pass spades along like torches. First the warden shows a circle on the ground, then he nods and the work begins. The soil is dark and damp, smelling faintly of rainwater and tea. Buckets clink; labels flutter on thin sticks. A line of small saplings look like pencils in a jar, green tips trembling.

A child kneels beside her grandmother, pressing the earth around a new tree with careful palms. The man with the neon vest measures the depth, his tape snaking across the grass. The spade bites the ground, the sound is dull, a soft thud that seems to settle your breath. Conversations run like small streams: school stories, bus routes, advice about roots and water. A teenager wrestles a stubborn clod and grins; an elderly neighbour steadies him with a gloved hand. They share jokes and quiet instructions—together yet busy.

Afterwards they water each sapling until the soil shines. Little leaves shake as if whispering thank you. The group steps back in a crooked line and looks at what they’ve done: a row of thin promises on a tired street. Someone writes dates on tags, someone takes a photo, someone just watches. It is ordinary, and important. We will walk here tomorrow; the trees will hold the light a bit longer. One by one, the small holes turn into a future.

Option B:

Monday. New week; a new start. The pale light crawled across my carpet, showing every crumb, every sock that had lost its twin. The room smelt like yesterday's chips and old glue, heavy and tired. I stood in the doorway, hair tied up, heart beating stubbornly, and said it out loud: today I change.

Not a huge, movie change. A small, good one that might grow. The phone, usually glued to my palm, lay face down. I set it to one working alarm and put it in the drawer; it thumped like a trapped fish, buzzing once, then quiet. Trainers by the bed, bottle of water. A note: run to the park. Join Ms Patel at the community garden—Saturday. It looked neat in my writing, like a promise someone sensible had made.

My trainers felt strange, springy but also like an argument. My lungs complained as I jogged down the road, breath cloudy in the air. But the street carried me forward. Leaves shivered. Mr Long from six lifted his hand and I lifted mine back. No more excuses, I told myself, no more saying tomorrow. Each step was a tap on a new door.

The park was not far, although my legs said it was miles; a stitch bit my side. I slowed, then went again. The path smelled of damp earth and cut grass. I smiled—awkward, unsure, but real. Change didn’t crash like thunder; it crept. I wasn’t different yet. Still, I was moving, and the morning noticed.

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

Option A:

At first, the field is quiet and pale. Then people arrive with bags and bright gloves, moving like a small tide over the grass. Spades split the ground with dull thuds; the soil is dark and damp, smelling sweet and earthy. A brisk wind brushes our faces, coats flap. Voices float across the space, a low murmur; a laugh jumps out.

A child kneels beside an adult, both leaning close to a thin sapling. Their fingers push into the crumbly dirt, careful and slow. 'Hold it straight, just there,' the adult says, and the child nods. Water pours from a green can in a bright ribbon onto the roots. The little tree seems to breathe—maybe it is only the breeze. They pat the ground, pat-pat, making a neat bowl that holds the water better, it looks right. Down and up, down and up.

Around them, others work together. A teenager passes a shovel; an elderly man ties a loose stake with twine. Laughter lifts; someone takes photos. Finally, everyone steps back: a new line appears, green flags in brown earth. They look fragile but stubborn, like thin soldiers standing to attention. The place feels different now, and our hands ache in a good way.

Option B:

Monday. The day I chose to stop saying "tomorrow" and start. My room looked like a storm had lived here; clothes curled over the chair, old homework sheets asleep under the bed. I stood in the doorway with determination. I couldn’t change the world, but I could change this space. One rule: if it didn’t fit the new me, it went. Scary, but exciting.

First, I pulled the curtains wide; light pushed in like a polite guest. Then I opened the window; the street sighed in. I inhaled; dust scratched my throat. Where do you even start? With the mess. I made three piles: keep, donate, bin. Shoes lay like sleeping dogs. I held my cracked trainers, hesitated, then dropped them in the bag—goodbye. I was shaking, but also calm, like a tide that keeps coming back.

After that, I laced up and stepped outside. The air was chilly and honest. I walked to the park, jogged a little, stopped, then tried again. My lungs burned and my legs complained, but something inside said carry on. Small steps. Small wins. By the time I reached the bench, my face was hot and happy. It wasn’t perfect, and I definately wasn’t fast, but it was a start.

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

Option A:

The ground is dark and wet. People stand in a row with spades that shine a bit. A child holds a small tree like a flag, the leaves shake in the small wind. We dig and dig, the soil is soft and it smell like rain.

Cold air on faces, our breath is little clouds. Together we plant, together together.

Someone shows me where to press the roots. I am careful but my hands are brown and messy and I don't care, there is hope in the dirt. The bucket goes round the line, splashing on boots we don't mind we just keep going. Backwards and forwards. Hands clap, mud jumps like tiny spots.

The small trees look shy, they stand in a thin row. We are tired but smiling, we did it! The ground holds the trees tight, it will hold them tomorrow to.

Option B:

Morning was pale and thin. Light came through my old curtains and made a stripe on the carpet. I sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about how I always leave things, always say I’ll start tomorrow.

Today is different.

I will change, I told myself. I will go for a run, just to the park and back.

My trainers were dusty like they were sleeping. I tied the laces tight, my fingers felt clumsy and nervus. I was scared but also ready!

I opened the door and the air was cold, it hit my face. The street looked new, like it was waiting for me to move. One step, then another, my shoes thumped the path like small drums. I wasn’t fast and my chest hurt, I was gonna stop but I didn’t, I kept going. It felt small but good, a begining, something positive at last.

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

Option A:

People stand in a field with spades. The sun is pale and the soil is wet. A child and an adult kneel, they dig a little hole. The spade scrapes and it sounds sharp. Hands press the earth, pat pat, again and again. It smells like fresh dirt and water. We put the tiny tree in and push the soil back, the roots hide and someone says it’s gonna grow tall. The bucket tips, water runs. There hands are muddy. A car goes past, I think about lunch. Birds shout! It is slow but nice and we dont stop today

Option B:

Morning. the light comes and I think I need to change. My room is a mess and my head is mess too, I dont like it. I say to myself today I do it, I be better. I pick up clothes and put them in a bag, the bin rustles and it feels clean like new rain. Mum says you wont keep it but I go no, I will try. I write a small list on paper, drink water, smile, walk to school, I think cut my hair later. The street is wet and my shoes squeak and I am scared and brave and it is a start.