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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 What was notably diminished?: the stock of switches – 1 mark
• 1.2 The master’s arm performed until it was what?: tired – 1 mark
• 1.3 What does the master order the boy to do?: Go and sit with the girls – 1 mark
• 1.4 What else does the order say?: let this be a warning to you – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 31 to 40 of the source:

31 Tom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable ends to it and a corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney. Then the girl’s interest began to fasten itself upon the work and she forgot everything else. When it was finished, she gazed a moment, then whispered:

36 “It’s nice—make a man.” The artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a derrick. He could have stepped over the house; but the girl was not hypercritical; she was satisfied with the monster, and whispered:

How does the writer use language here to show the playful drawing and the girl’s growing interest? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively analyse how hyperbole and metaphor make the drawing playful — the house as a "dismal caricature" with a "corkscrew of smoke" and the man who "resembled a derrick" that "could have stepped over the house" — while tracing the girl’s growing absorption through personification and sentence form, noting her "interest began to fasten itself upon the work" and the repeated, intimate "whispered" plus the imperative "It's nice—make a man" to show absorbed engagement rather than critique.

The writer establishes a playful, self-mocking tone through caricature and vivid metaphor. The house is a “dismal caricature”: the noun signals deliberate exaggeration for comic effect, while “dismal” undercuts the quality. The metaphor “a corkscrew of smoke” twists the image into a tactile spiral, and the dynamic verb “issuing” animates the chimney. “Tom partly uncovered” the picture, a stagey revelation that teases the viewer; calling him “the artist” is an ironic epithet, elevating a childlike sketch to mock seriousness.

Moreover, the girl’s growing absorption is conveyed through personification and sentence form. Her “interest began to fasten itself upon the work”: the personified noun phrase and tactile verb “fasten” suggest an irresistible attachment, while the progressive “began to” marks her deepening focus. Hyperbole in “she forgot everything else” intensifies her single-mindedness. The cadence of “she gazed a moment, then whispered” creates a hush, and the dash in “It’s nice—make a man” pivots into a clipped imperative, signalling eager participation.

Additionally, exaggerated comparison and an industrial semantic field keep the drawing playfully outsized and sustain her interest. He “erected” a figure that “resembled a derrick,” casting the stick-man as a spindly crane; the verb “erected” accentuates mock engineering. Hyperbole in “He could have stepped over the house” heightens comic disproportion. The understated negation “the girl was not hypercritical” (litotes) foregrounds her indulgence, while the evaluative noun “monster” feels affectionate. The echoed “whispered” closes the scene softly, confirming sustained, absorbed delight.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses playful imagery like "dismal caricature" and the metaphor "corkscrew of smoke" to make the drawing feel exaggerated and fun, while the personification "interest began to fasten itself" and the dash with imperative "make a man" show the girl’s attention sharpening and eagerness to direct the picture. Hyperbole in "He could have stepped over the house", the repeated "whispered", and her being "satisfied with the monster" emphasise a comically oversized scene and her growing, absorbed interest.

The writer uses descriptive nouns and figurative language to present the drawing as playful. The phrase “a dismal caricature of a house” uses the noun “caricature” to suggest an exaggerated, comic sketch, while the adjective “dismal” adds humorous contrast. Likewise, the metaphor “corkscrew of smoke” creates quirky imagery, and the verb “issuing” personifies the smoke.

Furthermore, the girl’s growing interest is shown through personification: “the girl’s interest began to fasten itself upon the work.” The dynamic verb “fasten” implies her attention latching on, and the hyperbole “she forgot everything else” shows absorption. The repeated “whispered” suggests a hushed fascination.

Moreover, comparison and hyperbole emphasise the playful crudeness of the figures. The man “resembled a derrick,” so the reader imagines a spindly stick-man; “He could have stepped over the house” is comic exaggeration, and she is “satisfied” with the “monster”—a playful acceptance. Additionally, the short, imperative dialogue “It’s nice—make a man” and the dash convey eagerness, showing her increasing engagement.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response identifies playful exaggeration in phrases like “dismal caricature”, “corkscrew of smoke”, and the comparison “resembled a derrick”, with hyperbole in “He could have stepped over the house” and “monster”, to show the drawing is cartoonish and oversized. It also picks out verbs like “fasten itself” and “whispered”, plus “she was satisfied”, to simply explain that the girl’s attention grows and she becomes quietly pleased.

The writer uses adjectives and metaphor to show the playful drawing. The phrase “dismal caricature” suggests the house is exaggerated and silly. Also, “corkscrew of smoke” is a metaphor that makes a twisting, cartoon picture, so the scene feels fun.

Furthermore, the personification “interest began to fasten itself” shows her focus growing, and “forgot everything else” proves she is drawn in. The short whispered line, “It’s nice—make a man.” shows excitement and a gentle request to continue.

Additionally, hyperbole in “resembled a derrick” and “could have stepped over the house” exaggerates the man, which is playful. The noun “monster” shows it looks clumsy but enjoyable, and “not hypercritical… satisfied” shows the girl likes it more. Overall, these choices present playful drawing and the girl’s growing interest.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies simple descriptive words like dismal caricature and corkscrew of smoke to show the drawing is playful and exaggerated, and spots phrases such as interest began to fasten itself, forgot everything else, It’s nice—make a man, and whispered to show the girl is getting more interested and quietly excited.

The writer uses adjectives like “dismal caricature” to show the playful drawing. “Caricature” suggests it is not realistic. This makes it seem fun and exaggerated.

Furthermore, personification in “the girl’s interest began to fasten itself” shows her growing interest.

Moreover, the whisper “It’s nice—make a man” sounds eager, so she joins in.

Additionally, the comparison “resembled a derrick” and the hyperbole “He could have stepped over the house” show a silly, oversized man, which amuses the girl. She “forgot everything else”, showing focus.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Evaluative noun and modifier create comic exaggeration, framing a playful sketch → (dismal caricature)
• Visual metaphor supplies lively, twisting motion to the scene → (corkscrew of smoke)
• Personification of attention shows focus intensifying and grip deepening → (interest began to fasten itself)
• Hyperbole stresses complete absorption, marking her growing fascination → (forgot everything else)
• Imperative in direct speech (with dash) signals eager participation and momentum → (make a man)
• Mock-elevated diction and verb choice humorously aggrandise the crude drawing → (The artist erected)
• Comparison to machinery highlights clumsy, towering form for comic effect → (resembled a derrick)
• Exaggerated scale amplifies playful absurdity that she accepts without complaint → (stepped over the house)
• Approval and fantasy noun show indulgent delight in the exaggerated figure → (satisfied with the monster)
• Temporal markers shape progression from house to man, mirroring interest building → (When it was finished)

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 novel.

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

You could write about:

• how intimacy develops 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 how intimacy is incrementally structured through temporal pacing ("By and by," "Presently," "At last"), patterned reciprocity ("She thrust it away... Tom gently put it back"), and a shift from public scrutiny ("titter that rippled") to clandestine touch ("put her small hand upon his") and confession ("I love you"), before a final juxtaposition where the public order returns ("peppering fire of giggles") even as his "ear tingled" but "heart was jubilant", foregrounding the private bond.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of intimacy is through a progressive narrowing of focus and calibrated pacing. We shift from a public spectacle (“the titter that rippled around the room”) to a private bubble between two children. Temporal adverbials—“By and by… Presently… At last”—regulate narrative pace, marking incremental stages of closeness. Proxemics change, too: at first “the girl hitched herself away,” but through patterned repetition of action (“She thrust it away… Tom gently put it back… Then she let it remain”) the exchange of the peach becomes a courtship ritual. This rhythmic patterning and narrative zoom— from room, to bench, to slate—draw the reader into their confidential space.

In addition, the shift from narrated summary to unmediated dialogue intensifies intimacy. The writer engineers a sequence of adjacency pairs that escalate from curiosity to complicity: “Let me see it” leads to name-sharing (“Becky Thatcher… I’m Tom when I’m good”) and then to private vows—“You won’t tell anybody at all? Ever, as long as you live?” Withholding and revelation are pivotal structural choices: Tom hides drawing and words, the girl negotiates access, and only after a tactile threshold (“she put her small hand upon his”) does the disclosure “I love you” arrive as a whispered climax. The dialogic turn-taking, stripped of tags, creates immediacy and a conspiratorial tone.

A further structural feature is sustained internal focalisation through Tom, framed by strategic interruption. The master’s public intervention briefly ruptures the intimacy, yet the closing return to routine lessons counterpoints the inner narrative: “his heart was jubilant,” “the turmoil within him was too great.” This public/private oscillation foregrounds the private attachment as the true centre of the scene, deepening the sense of intimacy.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer creates intimacy by narrowing the focus from the class’s titter and nudges and winks to Tom’s furtive glances, using time shifts (By and by, Presently) and a repeated give-and-take (She thrust it away / Tom gently put it back) to move into private whispered exchanges. The closeness builds to the delayed reveal “I love you” after a little scuffle, then is abruptly broken by the master’s grip and the giggles from the whole school, showing how shifts from public to private space create and then disrupt intimacy.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create intimacy is by narrowing the focus from the classroom to a private exchange. We move from the master’s punishment and a room-wide 'titter' to Tom’s 'furtive glances' and the peach passed back and forth. The patterned repetition ('She thrust it away... Tom... returned it') slows the pace and simulates tentative courtship, drawing the reader into their small, shared space amid the 'school murmur'.

In addition, temporal markers and staged concealment shape the build-up. 'By and by', 'Presently' and 'At last' regulate pace. Tom hides the slate, 'partly uncover[s]' the drawing, then reveals 'I love you'. This delay creates a structural climax, amplified by quick, alternating lines ('Yes.' 'When?') and the brief touch when 'she put her small hand upon his', deepening intimacy through gradual disclosure.

A further structural choice is the shift between private and public. 'Just at this juncture' the master widens the lens to the class ('giggles'), breaking it. However, the narrative re-centres on Tom’s inner state—'his heart was jubilant', 'the turmoil within him'—sustaining intimate narrative focus as lessons resume. This juxtaposition of outward humiliation with inward elation keeps the reader close to him beyond the moment.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds intimacy step by step: after go and sit with the girls, Tom moves from steal furtive glances to short whispered exchanges and drawings, leading to I love you. It shifts from the class titter to their secret, then gets interrupted, and it ends with his heart was jubilant, showing how the scene moves from the whole class to just them and creates a simple sense of closeness.

One way the writer creates intimacy is by moving from a busy classroom to a close focus. At the beginning, the master makes Tom sit with the girls. Then the focus narrows to Tom and the girl on the bench, bringing the reader near them.

In addition, the middle zooms in on small actions and whispers. Time markers like “By and by” and “Presently” slow the pace, so closeness grows: furtive glances, the peach, and the slate. Back-and-forth talk (“Let me see it”) and names (“Becky Thatcher”, “I’m Tom”) build a bond. The secret slate line, “I love you,” and her “small hand” make the moment private.

A further feature is a sudden shift outwards when the master grips his ear. This contrast with their private whispering makes the intimacy clearer. At the end, lessons resume, but Tom’s “heart was jubilant,” showing the private scene still matters.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: First the writer moves from the public punishment to focusing on Tom and Becky, with small steps like steal furtive glances and Please take it that make it feel more intimate. Then short dialogue (Let me see it, I love you) creates a private moment before the master interrupts.

One way the writer structures intimacy is by shifting focus. At the start we see the whole class, then it zooms in to Tom and the girl, so their moments feel private.

In addition, the writer uses short dialogue and whispers. The quick, back‑and‑forth talk and the secret on the slate make a close, quiet mood and bring the reader close.

A further structural feature is the ending change. At the end, after the public punishment, the focus goes to Tom’s feelings, like “his heart was jubilant,” which keeps the intimate tone.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Inciting command forces proximity, positioning the pair together to seed intimacy (go and sit with the girls).
• Narrative zoom shifts from whole-class noise to the bench, creating a private bubble amidst the crowd (furtive glances).
• Proxemics evolve from distance to tentative closeness, signalling softening boundaries (hitched herself away).
• Patterned repetition in the peach exchange builds a playful negotiation that increases intimacy (Then she let it remain).
• Temporal markers stage a gradual progression, slowing pace so closeness accumulates step by step (By and by).
• Withholding of the slate’s content, then revelation, crafts a structural turning point from flirtation to confession (I love you).
• The touch and mock struggle marks a physical crossing of boundaries, heightening immediacy (small hand upon his).
• Rapid, whispered dialogue in quick exchanges forms complicity through mutual vows of secrecy (as long as you live).
• Public interruption breaks the private moment, contrasting intimacy with authority to intensify its preciousness (slow, fateful grip).
• Aftermath sequence shows lingering emotional impact, proving the intimacy’s strength as it disrupts routine (chaos was come again).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 66 to the end.

In this part of the source, where Tom's heart is “jubilant” even after being punished, it shows his feelings are genuinely strong. The writer suggests that for Tom, the new connection with Becky is worth more than the embarrassment and pain.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Tom's reaction to his second punishment
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray Tom's feelings for Becky
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the writer suggests Tom values his connection with Becky over humiliation and pain, contrasting the sting of "ear tingled" and the "peppering fire of giggles" with "his heart was jubilant", and tracking the cost, "chaos was come again" and "yielded up the pewter medal", to show how the revealed "I love you" justifies his joy, thus largely supporting the statement.

I agree to a large extent that Tom’s “jubilant” heart proves his feelings are genuinely strong, and that the writer suggests the new bond with Becky outweighs both embarrassment and pain. From the outset of this section, the quick-fire dialogue creates an intimate, playful negotiation that builds to a confession. The repeated, childlike oaths—“deed and deed and double deed”—and Becky’s insistence “Yes I do, indeed I do” generate momentum towards the reveal. The tactile detail of her “small hand” and the “little scuffle,” with Tom “pretending to resist in earnest,” presents courtship as a game, yet the withheld slate intensifies suspense so that “I love you” lands as a decisive emotional act. Her mixed response—“Oh, you bad thing!” followed by a “smart rap,” but she “looked pleased”—confirms that Tom’s risk secures a real connection.

The punishment sequence is crafted to heighten the contrast between public shame and private triumph. The “slow, fateful grip” personifies authority, and the passive “was borne across the house” strips Tom of agency, while the metaphor of a “peppering fire of giggles” frames the class’s laughter as a barrage. The master’s “throne” ironizes his power. Crucially, the writer then pivots with a concessive antithesis: “although Tom’s ear tingled, his heart was jubilant.” The sensory contrast—physical sting versus emotional elation—cements that the emotional gain eclipses the bodily and social cost. The lexis of “jubilant” is unambiguously exultant, suggesting more than fleeting amusement.

In the aftermath, Tom’s inability to study—“the turmoil within him was too great”—extends the idea that his feelings are overwhelming. Through escalating hyperbole he “turned lakes into mountains, mountains into rivers, and rivers into continents, till chaos was come again,” a comic unmaking of the world that mirrors his mental upheaval. That he is “turned down” to the “foot” of the class and “yielded up the pewter medal which he had worn with ostentation for months” is symbolically rich: a cherished badge of status is sacrificed. The structural placement of this loss after the confession implies a reordering of values—internal delight supersedes external acclaim.

However, the tonal lightness and performative notes (“pretending to resist,” Becky’s playful rebuke) suggest ardent infatuation rather than mature devotion. Even so, the writer’s ironic, omniscient voice consistently privileges the boy’s exultation over humiliation. Overall, I agree that Tom’s jubilance shows genuine intensity, and the narrative clearly implies that, for him, the nascent link with Becky is worth more than both the sting of punishment and the spectacle of ridicule.

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 largely agree, noting that despite the humiliation of the "slow, fateful grip" and "peppering fire of giggles", Tom’s "heart was jubilant", indicating his feelings for Becky outweigh pain and embarrassment. It would identify methods such as contrast and consequence—Becky’s reaction to "I love you" as she "looked pleased", and Tom’s distracted failures ("made a botch of it", turning "lakes into mountains")—to show the intensity of his infatuation.

I largely agree with the statement. In this section, the writer presents Tom’s feelings as genuinely strong, so much so that the new bond with Becky eclipses both public embarrassment and physical pain, though the tone also hints at boyish impulsiveness.

At the start, the lively dialogue builds their connection. Becky’s repeated vows—“deed and deed and double deed”—use childish repetition to create a playful, intimate tone, while Tom “pretending to resist” during the “little scuffle” suggests complicity in a flirtatious game. The structural build-up to the revelation of “I love you” heightens the moment, and Becky’s mixed response—calling him a “bad thing” yet looking “pleased”—confirms mutual interest. The writer’s use of direct speech makes this exchange immediate and credible, establishing why the risk is worth it for Tom.

The punishment is humiliating and painful: the “slow, fateful grip” on his ear and being “borne across the house” under a “peppering fire of giggles” create a scene of public shame. Sensory detail—his ear “tingled”—is sharply contrasted with the adjective “jubilant” to describe his heart. This clear juxtaposition shows that inner elation outweighs pain and ridicule. Even the master’s silent authority—“a few awful moments”—cannot diminish his glow, supporting the idea that the connection matters more.

Afterwards, Tom’s reaction to the second punishment proves how overpowering his feelings are. Despite an “honest effort,” the “turmoil within” derails him. Through comic hyperbole—turning “lakes into mountains… rivers into continents, till chaos was come again”—the writer exaggerates his confusion to show love’s disruptive impact. The structural sequence of failures culminates in him yielding “the pewter medal,” a symbolic loss of status that he effectively sacrifices without regret.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer portrays Tom’s emotion as intense and absorbing, valuing Becky’s approval above pain and embarrassment. Yet the playful tone and exaggeration suggest ardent but immature infatuation, rather than mature devotion.

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, noting that although his ear tingled and there is a peppering fire of giggles, the phrase his heart was jubilant shows he values Becky more than the punishment. It would give straightforward examples like the slate confession I love you, the turmoil within him, and his mistakes (made a botch of it, turned lakes into mountains) as simple evidence, with basic comment that the contrast between pain and happiness in this language shows strong feelings.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer shows that Tom’s joy about Becky outweighs both embarrassment and pain, so his feelings seem genuinely strong.

When Tom is caught, there is a clear contrast between the physical hurt and his emotions. We are told his "ear tingled" and the whole school fires a "peppering fire of giggles", which shows public humiliation. However, the adjective "jubilant" for his heart suggests happiness that overrules this. This shows the connection matters more than the punishment.

Earlier, the dialogue and action build that connection. The direct speech promises—"You won’t tell anybody at all? Ever, as long as you live?"—and the "little scuffle" where Becky puts "her small hand upon his" make the moment playful and close. When she sees "I love you" and "reddened and looked pleased", the writer shows Tom gets a positive response, which explains why, even as he is "borne across the house" and "deposited" by the master, he remains elated.

Afterwards, the structure of the passage tracks how love distracts him. He “made a botch” of reading, then in geography "turned lakes into mountains... till chaos was come again," and finally lost the "pewter medal." This list and the hyperbole "chaos" show his mind is full of Becky. Although these are serious consequences, he still cannot study, which suggests his feelings are powerful.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer implies Becky’s new bond is worth more to Tom than the embarrassment and the pain.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree that the writer shows Tom values Becky more than the punishment, pointing out that his heart is jubilant even though his ear tingled and there were giggles, and noticing he writes I love you to show strong feelings.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, even though Tom is punished, the writer shows his feelings for Becky are very strong and real.

When he writes “I love you” and gets caught, the master’s “slow, fateful grip” on his ear and the “peppering fire of giggles” from the class show pain and embarrassment. The word “fateful” makes it feel serious, and “fire” suggests it hurts his pride. However, we are told “his heart was jubilant.” The adjective “jubilant” is very happy, so there is a clear contrast between his tingling ear and his happy heart. This makes me think the new bond with Becky matters more to him.

After this, Tom can’t focus: “the turmoil within him was too great.” This description shows he is overwhelmed by his feelings. He messes up in lessons, “turned lakes into mountains,” and ends up at “the foot,” even losing the “pewter medal.” The list of failures (reading, geography, spelling) suggests he is still thinking about Becky rather than the punishment or his school status.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer shows pain and shame, but Tom’s joy is stronger, so the connection with Becky is worth more to him than the embarrassment and the punishment.

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:

• Juxtaposition of pain and elation highlights feelings outweigh punishment; despite his ear tingled, his heart was jubilant.
• Public humiliation intensifies the cost, yet joy persists, suggesting the bond matters more than embarrassment (peppering fire of giggles; without saying a word).
• Inevitable punishment imagery underscores stakes he accepts for the connection (slow, fateful grip; steady lifting impulse).
• Childlike oath conveys earnest intensity, framing his feeling as genuine if naive (deed and deed and double deed).
• Staged confession shows deliberate investment in the bond, heightening its importance (pretending to resist; I love you).
• Overmastering emotion disrupts study, implying the relationship eclipses school concerns (honest effort to study yet turmoil within him).
• Comic hyperbole of academic collapse magnifies how thoroughly feeling overturns his world (turned lakes into mountains; chaos was come again).
• Tangible loss of status stresses the cost of his distraction, even undoing prior pride (yielded up the pewter medal he’d worn with ostentation).
• Contrast of jubilance with ongoing chaos suggests powerful but volatile feeling, so agreement is strong with a caveat (heart was jubilant amid turmoil within him).
• Mutual pledge to meet at noon signals prioritising their bond over routine, foregrounding the value he places on it (I’ll stay if you will).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At the town library's open-mic night for young writers, you will perform a short creative piece.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a rain-soaked football training session from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a lost recipe card.

(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 floodlights slice the rain into glittering wires, needles stitching the night. Crossbar, corner flag, taut ball: everything shivers. Water beads on eyelashes, blurring the field into a smear of emerald and white; the pitch gleams, a lacquered stage where every step is both invitation and ambush. Breath flowers, brittle and visible. Then the whistle: terse, metallic. Boots bite then betray, studs worrying at the sodden turf before slipping—skid, catch, recover. The rain refuses to relent; it drums the hoods, drums the shoulders, drums the mind into a steady, relentless tempo.

Meanwhile, bibs flare neon against the murk, darting, colliding, reforming like shoals. A pass scuds across a ribbon of standing water; it spins, slows, and sits up. "Quicker!" barks the coach, voice like gravel on a tin roof. Cones glow like small altars; between them, we weave—left, right, left—hips deceptive, thighs burning. Palms wrinkled, fingers numb, laces dark with rain. Beyond the chain-link, headlights glide past, indifferent. Our thunder is nearer: the slap of leather on instep, the hiss of spray, the oath when a touch deserts you.

Yet stubbornness thrives here. The smallest player—cap pulled low, jaw set—chases a ball that skitters like a startled fish. He overstrides, slips, lands, and laughs—briefly—then is up again, shirt clinging, knees lacquered with grit. He listens with his whole body, nodding as if each instruction were a rung he will climb—wet rung after wet rung. When the drill restarts, he meets the pass early, opens his body, and guides it around the cone as though persuading rather than striking. A modest triumph; a spark. The coach sees and says nothing, but the whistle softens.

Now the rain hardens. It comes sideways, turning sidelines into shallow rivers that ferry away cut grass. Puddles crease under footfalls; water leaps from tread to shin, cold as accusation. The air tastes electric—metallic and green—earth and ozone—and tongues work despite the deluge. Mud paints our calves in hieroglyphs; numbers of effort, strokes of persistence. Under buzzing lamps, the drops fall in sparkling parabolas, a stroboscopic shimmer that makes each movement look heroic and ridiculous. We are drenched and oddly weightless, as if the rain has washed pretence and left only intention.

Then the shuttles. To the line and back, cone to cone, touch the ground—again, again, again—until quads tremble and lungs argue. Someone coughs and it turns into laughter. The ball waits, glistening on the spot, haloed by a luminous puddle; it is both prize and witness. When at last we gather in, shoulder to shoulder, steam lifting from us like prayer, the coach speaks quietly. One more pattern, he promises. One more. We nod because there is nothing else we want. The whistle cuts, the rain applauds, and we move as one.

Option B:

Flour has a way of getting everywhere—on cuffs and eyebrows, on telephone screens and the tips of recipes—soft as ash, brazen as snowfall. The kitchen breathed warm and sweet; sunlight laid a pale square on the table, the clock muttered its stubborn seconds, and the oven tiled a low hum through the house as it preheated. On the sill, basil leaves tilted their faces like small, green prayers. Everything felt poised; everything felt possible.

Tessa lifted the biscuit tin that wasn’t for biscuits. Its lacquered lid clicked, revealing a treasury of cards: butter-stained, flour-dusted, corners softened with use until each looked like a little map with its edges rubbed away by travel. She thumbed through the archive—Nan’s handwriting looping elegantly across each line, every recipe a litany and a love letter. Lemon drizzle. Jam tarts. Seed cake. She kept flicking, pulse skimming ahead of the cards. Cinnamon rolls. Shortbread. Yorkshire pudding. It should have been here.

It wasn’t.

She spread the stack like a hand of priceless, ridiculous cards—hearts and diamonds replaced by ink and vanilla. There was the apricot tart she’d never mastered; there was the note: “Bake until it smells right.” The recipe for the ginger biscuits Nan had rolled thin as autumn leaves. But the one she needed—the one she’d promised to bring to the memorial tea at three, the caraway cake that tasted of Sundays and patient conversation—was missing.

The air shifted as if the room had inhaled. Tessa could see Nan’s kitchen superimposed on her own: the old clock with brass numerals, the kettle that wheezed like an elderly cat, the way steam wrote cursive on the tile. “Measure with your eyes,” Nan would murmur, “and with your nose.” Her hand, spotted and assured, would guide Tessa’s. A recipe card isn’t just instructions; it’s a palimpsest, a skin of memory laid over a thing made new each time. Without it, Tessa felt unmoored, as if language had dissolved and left only taste.

She searched anyway, assiduous and increasingly inelegant. Under the tea towels. Under the flour canister. Behind the canisters entirely, where dust draped itself like theatre curtains. In the drawer that collected elastic bands and old batteries. Between the pages of Nan’s cookbook, where the spine sighed and gave up a paperclip, an old shopping list—“eggs, milk, patience”—and a pressed petal she hadn’t known was there. She crouched, peered along the skirting board, discovered a paper corner winking from beneath the fridge, coaxed it free with a wooden spoon. Not the one. Saucepans chimed, an accidental orchestra.

Her phone shivered on the counter: How’s the cake coming? We’re counting on Nan’s magic x

Tessa closed her eyes. Magic was a word for work done carefully and with love; magic was repetition and a steady hand. She laid a clean card on the table and wrote, slowly: Caraway Seed Cake. Ingredients: butter, sugar, eggs—four?—milk, flour, a fistful of seeds that smell faintly of anise and old cupboards. She hesitated. Clarity faltered, then returned in glimpses; a silver spoon striking a bowl, the precise scratch of Nan’s ring against china.

She lifted the tin again, hopeful beyond reason, as if the missing might have tactfully returned while she wasn’t looking. Cards cascaded and clattered; inked hieroglyphs spilled across the light. A breath caught. Nothing. The oven beeped—cheerful, indifferent. Time, frosting itself onto everything. Tessa dusted her hands, inhaled the kitchen, and did the only thing she could: she began to bake by memory, listening for that moment, elusive and exact, when the house would smell right.

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

Option A:

Rain worries at the pitch under floodlights, needling the skin of the evening. Lights comb the water, turning drops to shivering silver. White lines blur to streams; nets sag, tired. The smell of soaked rubber and cut grass—richer, almost metallic—lifts with steam from breathing bodies. Boots nudge at the slick turf; the turf answers with a dark slap.

The coach stands under the touchline awning (which is not much shelter), cap brim dripping in a steady rhythm. His whistle splits the rain. He calls: 'Touch—turn—pass—press'—four stones dropped into a fast stream. Cones shine like distant lanterns; bibs cling; names blur. Again, he says, again, and they move.

The ball skates like a bright coin; it clips an ankle and tears into a shining puddle. A groan; then surprised laughter. They chase and pivot, hips swivelling, boots carving lines in water. Breath ghosts; fingers sting and then go numb. A pass zips, too brave; another cushions it with the sole, steady, ironing creases from cloth. They shout numbers, colours—commands that stack into a rhythm; the storm drums the beat.

Cold gathers at the back of the neck, slides down the spine; it is not dramatic, just precise. One midfielder, soaked through to the skin, tastes the clean, tinny tang of rain and grit; he lifts his head because the coach is watching. He wants warmth, a shower, a dry hoodie, but the drill insists. The rain is a tutor: it erases softness, makes the ball honest, forces first touch. Mist rises from their shoulders like pale banners; in the glare, they look almost heroic.

Whistle shrills; they bend to the white line, and then they fly as if the floodlights have tugged them forward by the chest. Hamstrings hum; hearts thump; water lashes faces, eyes screw up, focus narrows to the next cone, the next breath. Someone slips, skids on one knee, and is up before the shout has finished. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving, the coach says, and the phrase knocks through them like a tide.

When it ends, it ends not with drama but with a long, falling note from the whistle; they fold in, a huddle of colour and steam, slogans darkened to near-black, hands slapping backs—private applause. The pitch lies raked and shining; studs have written temporary hieroglyphs into its skin. Floodlights coin themselves in puddles. They jog away, boots heavy, expressions light—soaked, chilled, alive. Behind them, the rain keeps talking to the ground.

Option B:

Sunday. The time of warm ovens; counters powdered with flour; pages turned with sugared fingers. Light slid through butter-yellow blinds and caught dust dancing like icing sugar. On the dresser, the tin lived where it always had—blue, chipped, dependable. Inside, paper kept paper company: old receipts and, usually, the card with foxed corners, sepia ink, margins freckled by lemon. That card held more than instructions; it held the scent of Sundays.

When Lena levered the lid and tipped the tin, she expected its familiar weight to fall into her palm. Instead, a snow of till slips slid over the table. A shopping list—milk, caster sugar, eggs, lemons—stared up at her, mocking the omission. She felt it then: a small, hard panic knocking in her ribs. She tried again, methodical now: tin; recipe book; the drawer with elastic bands (and tea lights); the cookbook with a cracked spine. Nothing. It wasn’t there. What if it had gone?

Her mother would arrive by two with daffodils and that tune about lemon drizzle; neighbours would follow, noses primed by memory. Gran’s cake was more than cake—zest grated until the room sang, sugar rubbed with peel until it flashed bright, glaze poured thin as rain, seeping into warm crumb. “Listen,” Gran used to say, tapping the bowl like a conductor; “the batter must sigh.” The card was a talisman and a map—a palimpsest of spills and fingerprints.

The kitchen, usually obedient, refused to give. Cupboards yawned. The clock tutted. Flour annotated her jeans; a smear of butter migrated to her wrist. She rummaged—carefully at first, then faster. Drawers surrendered their miscellany: keys with no door, old elastic, a cinnamon stick that had forgotten its bite. She knelt on the linoleum, cheek near the cold, peering into the geometry beneath the appliances. “Please,” she said to the humming quiet, and heard how childish it sounded.

Under the radiator, something pale caught the light—a papery ear, curled like a moth’s wing. She reached, fingers flattened, heart lodging in her throat. Her fingertips brushed card, then dust, then nothing. The scrap slid further back with a flick of air, and Lena exhaled a word Gran would have scolded. She looked at the clock, the waiting lemons, the blue tin with its empty bravado. The house had mislaid their recipe. For now. And if paper could slip away, what else might?

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

Option A:

Rain needles under the floodlights, stitching the pitch into a shining skin. The smell of wet earth and liniment. The whistle slices, shrill; the first touch is a slap against the ball, water exploding in tiny stars. Breathe in: cold air, metallic, tasting of tins and sky. The coach’s voice: ‘Open up, angle, shoulder!’

We move as instructed: shuttle runs between cones, turn, pass, follow. The cones glow like damp embers, stubborn in their neat lines. Boots thud, squelch; laces cling to ankles; socks grow heavier with each sprint. Rain writes on our cheeks and collars, drumming on jackets—louder when we pause, softer when our feet make their own percussion. Again and again. The pattern is simple, then not simple, a chain that tightens if you think too hard.

Meanwhile, the coach prowls the touchline, hood slick, clipboard slicker. He taps his watch, his voice a metronome: quicker; cleaner; relax. The ball changes character in the wet, hard one moment and sly the next, skidding away from the toe as if it has decided its own route. My palms sting when I throw in, my breath fogs, a thin ghost that the rain immediately erases. Under the lamps, every droplet is a bead; we are spangled, soaked, stubborn.

Before long, passing drills morph into a small-sided game: three bibs against three, goals made from stacked cones, bragging rights as valuable as any medal. The ground gives and takes with each tackle; studs bite, then slide; mud flicks up and freckles our shins. A teammate shouts my name, urgent, and I turn on the ball. It slips, I slip, then somehow the touch sticks—just enough. There is a staccato of boots, a clatter against the chain-link fence, laughter that steams out into the weather.

At last, the long whistle draws a line through the noise. We stand heaving, rain still busy, relentless, filling the hollows our runs have carved. Bibs peel off like second skins; someone wrings a sleeve and a thin river spills out. The floodlights hum, bright but distant, while the pitch shivers under its silver veil. We leave prints, gullies, a story written in water, and the rain keeps reading it, over and over.

Option B:

Sunday mornings were measured in teaspoons: the hush of the kettle, the sugary grit under fingertips, the thud of the old tin box on the counter. Recipes are maps, she’d always thought; they lead you back. Paper soft as cloth, corners softened by a hundred small storms of flour. This kitchen breathed warm air and patience, even in March when the windows fogged and the sky looked like wet slate.

Yet when Hannah lifted the lid—cherries flaking on the paint—her breath snagged. The card wasn't there. The one with the brown splash over 'honey' and the meticulous loops of Nana Ruth's handwriting. It was only a card, a tiny thing, yet it carried birthdays and quiet afternoons; it carried a voice. Today of all days, when Aunt Lila was bringing the flowers and cousins were coming with their stories, the honey cake should have sat in the centre like a sun.

She rummaged, carefully at first, then less careful. Alphabet dividers, elastic bands, a torn shopping list for nutmeg, eggs, plain flour—no card. Drawers slid open and banged shut. Wooden spoons clattered like loose bones. She crouched: peered under the toaster, behind the stacked tins, inside the oven that coughed out cool air. Maybe she had put it in a cookbook? She pulled spines from the shelf—Stirring Comforts, a spiral pad with oil-stained pages—and fanned them. Nothing.

A row of sunlight climbed the table, making the dust sparkle like icing. Two days ago she had used the card; she'd traced the words with her finger, the way a child traces a path. Nana had taught her to do that: read the spaces between—bake until the scent reaches the stairs; stop when the top springs back. Once, at this very table, Nana wrote the recipe slowly, the nib’s scratch patient. It felt like a promise.

Time nipped at her heels. The clock seemed louder, the tap ticked, the house listened. She checked the bin—ridiculous, and still she checked. A breeze nosed at the back door, stirring the tea towel. She lifted the tin again and turned it upside down; a paper clip tumbled, a receipt for lemons drifted, a photograph of Nana in her apron fluttered—Hannah caught it by a corner. Beneath the fridge, in the narrow grey shadow: something pale. Leaf? Nothing? She pushed her hand into the cold gap, fingers stretching.

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

Option A:

Rain needles down under the hard white glare of the floodlights, making the air look thick. The pitch glistens, a shallow skin of water over the grass; painted lines blur and tremble. Each breath turns to mist, and the smell is rich: wet earth, rubber, cut lawn. Beyond the fence, cars crawl by, their wipers beating time. Hoods bob on the touchline as the coach stamps his boots and calls us in.

The ball skids with a slick, stubborn life; when a pass comes, it hisses along the surface and leaps at the first puddle. Studs scrape and squeal, then thump; someone slides, swears, laughs. The coach’s whistle slices the noise—sharp, impatient—and we form squares. Pass and move; touch and go; again, again. We train anyway.

Shirts cling like wet paper to shoulders. Water runs in cold threads down spines and into gloves; fingers sting. A winger lifts his face into the rain as if to rinse off the ache. He blinks at the lights and the world refracts, broken into glittering drops. Calves feel heavier, mud clamping to socks; lungs burn in a steady rush. There is the taste of metal in the mouth, that damp, tinny flavour you get when you breathe too hard.

Still, the rhythm builds; cones become islands, and voices echo across the slick turf. The coach barks names, then, softer, nods approval; a rare smile lands and is gone. The final drill is brutal: sprints carve shining arcs through puddles, and tackles smack water up into sudden wings. For a moment the whole pitch is a storm of motion—white shirts, dark shorts, flashes of green. When the whistle finally allows rest, steam lifts from backs like pale smoke, laughter loosens, and the rain eases, almost kindly, though it never truly stops.

Option B:

Morning gathered in the kitchen like steam. Sunlight puddled across the tiles, catching in the dusty air where flour had been shaken last night. The kettle chattered; the clock clicked. I lined out the ingredients with care: butter, eggs, the lemon that smelt sharp and clean. The recipe card had always lived in the blue tin next to the cooker, so reaching for it was part of the ritual, like tying an apron or turning the oven on.

It was more than a card. Small, cream and stiff, its frayed edges felt like soft feathers. Nana’s handwriting leaned in careful loops, strong but warm, as if her voice had been left there in ink. A tea ring sat in the corner like a pale moon. When I held it, I held a memory—her laugh, the steam, the scrape of a spoon.

The tin was there; the card was not. Only receipts, a paperclip, a faded postcard of Whitby stared back at me. I paused, then tried again, because sometimes things appear when you look twice. I sifted the drawer, shook the recipe books, slid my fingers between pages, lifted the apron hook. Not there. Not anywhere. I checked the fruit bowl (why would it be there?), the bread bin, the cold metal shelf. The clock tugged the seconds away, very loudly.

By ten, the bake sale would begin. They wanted the lemon cake; I had said of course. Where would she have put it, that past version of me who tidied last night? I tried to picture my hands. Washing up, wiping crumbs, then—had I tucked the card into a book? Was it under the magazine? The last place left was the gap beside the fridge: a crack that swallowed coins. I reached for the ruler, took a breath, and knelt.

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

Option A:

Rain hammers the pitch under white floodlights, turning the short grass into a noisy skin. The droplets bounce and splatter; they bead on sleeves, they run into eyes. The sky is one grey lid, pressing low. Breath steams; mud glistens; the net hangs like a tired mouth. Boots stamp. Whistles cut through the weather.

Coach yells, again. "Press! Move! Quicker!" Cones glow a washed-out orange, stubborn in the puddles. We shuffle, then sprint, passing the ball that feels like a bar of soap. It skids, it refuses to behave, it slips under studs. A mist lifts off the turf in thin breath; the lights make every drop glitter, almost pretty, even though the cold gets into bones.

Meanwhile, shirts are plastered to backs, numbers dark and shiny. The smell is sharp—wet grass, rubber, a sour hint of sweat. My socks are heavy as sandbags, the laces slap my ankles. Toe to instep to toe, we work the drill, again and again and again. Someone slides; laughter cracks, then fades when the whistle snaps. A gull wheels over the stand like a ghost that forgot the sea.

After a while the rain changes, thicker, then thin, then thick. We learn its rhythm without meaning to. Pass, turn, shoot: the ball thuds the net and shivers water into sparks. Fingers sting, faces shine. I can taste rain, metal and salt, and I think of the warm changing room, but we aren't done yet—one last run, one more shout. The session doesn’t stop for weather, it drums on, just like the sky.

Option B:

Sunday morning smelled of lemon and dust; light slanted across the cluttered table, catching on a small drift of flour. The bowl waited, big as a moon. The recipe card should have been beside it—cream, lined, mottled with old butter marks. It wasn’t. I stood still, listening to the quiet kitchen like it might whisper where it had gone.

I had seen it last night: I slid it under the salt tin, safe. Now the tin sat square and stubborn, and my fingers found only crumbs. I dragged open the top drawer. It coughed up a tangle of elastic bands, two blunt pencils, a ticket stub, a bent paperclip: no card. Then the cookbook; its swollen pages breathed out vanilla when I fanned them, but the pocket at the back was empty. Under the tea towels? Between the tea bags and the tin foil? Nothing.

Without the card, the cake felt impossible. Nan’s handwriting was the recipe itself; careful loops like stitched thread, a tiny lemon she always drew in the corner. Rest the batter, she’d written, let it settle. I could almost hear her saying it, that soft laugh. The clock ticked; the room seemed smaller. I should have taped it to the tin, I didn’t, I thought I was being careful.

First I looked by the window where the plants lean for light. After that, under the fridge with a spoon and a torch, fishing in the dark. The radiator hummed patiently. Was that a cream corner peeking there, or just a crumpled receipt? I reached in, heart thumping, picturing the smudge of ink, it’s edges soft as bread.

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

Option A:

Rain drills the pitch, sharp and cold, under humming floodlights. Water beads on our eyelashes; the world blurs and shines. The coach blows his whistle. Again, again, he shouts, and we obey. Boots slap through puddles, flecks of mud jump up our legs. The ball skids like a bar of soap; cones are small orange islands. Breath fogs, quick and white. The rain claws our cheeks, finding every gap.

My shirt sticks to my back, heavy. Socks sag at my ankles, grit rubs like sandpaper. Fingers turn numb inside wet gloves; I flex and try to feel the laces. We weave: left, right, left. Shouts bounce off the fence, and the floodlights buzz like wasps. Meanwhile, a cross sails then dies short, skittering away. A car crawls past, tyres hissing. We try to keep the rythm, though the wind tilts the ball.

Then the final sprint. Puddles explode, legs burn. The coach’s voice is a drum — don’t stop. The ball arrives, I swing and connect; it flies low, skims the water, slaps the net. We cheer, rain in our mouths. The lights hum, steam lifts from our shoulders like smoke, and the world is only wet and effort.

Option B:

Sunday morning. The kitchen breathed warm air and the smell of cinnamon hugged the room. Flour dust shivered along the light and the kettle hummed like a lazy bee. On the table lay bowls, a wooden spoon, and the old tin with roses that kept our secrets: buttons, stamps, and the recipe card.

I reached for it, the small cream rectangle with Nana's neat blue ink. Only, my fingers found nothing. Gone. My stomach dipped; without that card we couldn't make the lemon buns for the school fair.

I pulled open drawers until they yawned. Tea towels tumbled, a cascade of slips fell like snow. The clock ticked; my heart did too—faster. I checked under the sugar canister, behind the spice jars, even in the oven (cold, thankfully).

I could see her handwriting: careful curls, tiny stars near the word 'important'. Her loops, her dots, her little stars. Why didn't I put it back properly?

First, the tin again. Then the bin: coffee grinds. After that the hallway, in case it floated away. It was just a card, but it carried so much. A breeze nudged the curtain; on the fridge door a magnet lifted, a cream corner peeping out...

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

Option A:

Rain hits the pitch hard. It is cold and grey, the sky hang low and the floodlights buzz. Boots sink in the grass and the mud is brown and thick. The ball rolls and then stops in a puddle, like it dont want to move.

Coach is shouting, come on, faster, again. His voice cut through the weather like a whistle. We run round cones, we turn, our legs hurt and I cant feel my hands.

Water goes down my face into my eyes, it taste dirty. My shirt sticks to my back. I kick the ball and it splashes up, the sound is like stones.

Then the wind blows colder and the rain comes sideways. We keep going, legs heavy, breaths like smoke and the mud sucking at our boots, splash splash.

At the end the whistle goes we stand there in the rain, tired and kind of proud.

Option B:

Flour on the table. Sugar on the floor. Butter going soft in the warm kitchen. The recipe card should be here. It is small and yellow, with Grandmas writing, curly and thin. Today it is not there.

I open drawers. I look in the tin and the book. I look again. The card is hiding, I think, like a shy mouse. I dont want to tell Mum.

mum calls from the hall, are you ready yet for the bake sale.

It is only a card.

But it is the one with the lemon cake, the only one she gave me, she said keep it safe, I said I will and now look. I pull out the bread bin, I peer behind the kettle, crumbs stick to my fingers.

I reach under the fridge and pull a thin corner.

Not the card. A coupon, sticky with old juice.

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

Option A:

Rain hits my face and it is cold. Big lights shine on the wet grass and everything looks silver, we run in lines. The coach shouts and the whistle goes again and again, my shirt sticks to me. Boots slap in the water, my breath comes out like smoke. The ball is heavy and slips off my foot, it rolls in a puddle, I chase it and I fall. Mud on my hands and water in my eyes, I get up slow and we go again. I think about chips later, we was cold but we keep going, the rain keeps coming.

Option B:

Sunday morning. The kitchen was quiet. I look in the drawer for the recipe card. It is not there. I pull the drawer again and it rattles like a small box. The card is lost. I seen it yesterday on the counter. It was yellow and soft and it had my nan handwriting. I feel hot and silly. I check the table, the fridge, the bin. Still gone! The kettle hisses like a snake and the clock ticks too loud. Maybe the wind took it, the window was open. Or the cat. The cat just looks at me. It was gone, gone, gone.