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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 Who said, "I understand."?: the king – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the king, which position did the king grant to Master Olivier in ’68?: Valet of the royal chamber – 1 mark
• 1.3 When the king first speaks, what tone does the king use?: a dry tone – 1 mark
• 1.4 In which year did the speaker say "we made you valet of our chamber"?: ’68 – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 41 to 55 of the source:

41 have the rest. We have been good enough to change your name of Le Mauvais (The Evil), which resembled your face too closely. In ’76, we granted you, to the great displeasure of our nobility, armorial

46 bearings of a thousand colors, which give you the breast of a peacock. Pasque- Dieu! Are not you surfeited? Is not the draught of fishes sufficiently

51 fine and miraculous? Are you not afraid that one salmon more will make your boat sink? Pride will be your ruin, gossip. Ruin and disgrace always press hard on the heels of

How does the writer use language here to show the king’s power and his tone towards Master Olivier? 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 analyse how the king’s power is asserted through the royal plural and declaratives—“We have been good enough to change your name of Le Mauvais,” “we granted you, to the great displeasure of our nobility, armorial bearings”—while his contemptuous, mocking tone emerges via hyperbole and animal imagery (“a thousand colors,” “breast of a peacock”) and the belittling vocative “gossip.” It would also track the shift into admonition through oath and rhetorical questioning—“Pasque- Dieu!,” “Are not you surfeited?,” “Is not the draught of fishes sufficiently fine and miraculous?,” “one salmon more will make your boat sink?”—culminating in the gnomic warning “Pride will be your ruin… Ruin and disgrace,” showing how metaphor and sentence forms enforce authority and rebuke.

The writer foregrounds the king’s authority through the pluralis maiestatis and a lexis of patronage. The repeated “We” in “We have been good enough to change your name” and “we granted you” asserts sovereign power, as if royal favour determines Olivier’s identity. “To the great displeasure of our nobility” shows he overrules them. The parenthesis “(The Evil)” and “resembled your face too closely” add caustic sarcasm, revealing a contemptuous, belittling tone.

Furthermore, a chain of rhetorical interrogatives with anaphora (“Are not you… Is not… Are you not…”) relentlessly interrogates him; the second-person “you” makes the reprimand personal. The semantic field of excess—“surfeited,” “draught of fishes,” “one salmon more”—casts him as greedy. The fishing metaphor ending in “make your boat sink” warns that favour can overwhelm, casting the king as the arbiter of Olivier’s rise and fall, and sharpening the admonitory tone.

Moreover, vivid imagery and hyperbole expose vanity: “armorial bearings of a thousand colors” and “the breast of a peacock” conjure gaudy display; the peacock connotes ostentation, sharpening the mockery. The exclamative oath “Pasque-Dieu!” injects brusque energy and impatience, reinforcing royal dominance.

Additionally, aphorism and personification intensify the threat. The gnomic “Pride will be your ruin” sounds judicial, while “Ruin and disgrace always press hard on the heels” personifies punishment as relentless pursuers. Finally, the vocative “gossip” is a belittling address that feigns intimacy, sealing a tone that is simultaneously patronising, scornful and didactic, and underlining the king’s power to elevate—or destroy—Master Olivier.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer asserts royal authority with the first-person plural in "We have been good enough to change your name of Le Mauvais (The Evil)", then uses the exclamative "Pasque-Dieu!" and rhetorical questions like "Are not you surfeited?" to challenge and belittle Olivier. Mocking imagery in "armorial bearings of a thousand colors" and "the breast of a peacock", plus the warning metaphor "one salmon more will make your boat sink", culminates in threats like "Pride will be your ruin, gossip" and "Ruin and disgrace", showing a scornful, admonishing tone.

The writer uses the royal first-person plural to foreground the king’s power and his contemptuous tone towards Master Olivier. The repeated 'We' and 'good enough to change your name of Le Mauvais (The Evil)' show he can even redefine Olivier’s identity, while 'we granted you' asserts control over his status, 'to the great displeasure of our nobility' proving he overrules the court, and 'resembled your face too closely' makes the insult explicit.

Moreover, figurative language mocks Olivier’s vanity. The metaphor 'the breast of a peacock' and 'armorial bearings of a thousand colors' create animal imagery of showiness. The exclamatory oath 'Pasque-Dieu!' and the cluster of rhetorical questions—'Are not you surfeited?... Is not the draught of fishes... Are you not afraid that one salmon more will make your boat sink?'—scold his greed; the extended fishing metaphor warns that another favour will 'sink' him.

Additionally, the king’s tone turns threatening in the statements 'Pride will be your ruin, gossip' and 'Ruin and disgrace always press hard on the heels of—'. The belittling direct address 'gossip' is dismissive, and the broken sentence after the dash leaves a menacing pause, implying he controls the consequences. Thus, language shows a powerful, patronising monarch.

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 would spot the royal plural in 'We have been good enough' and 'we granted you' to show the king’s power, and pick out insults/exclamation like 'Le Mauvais', 'gossip' and 'Pasque- Dieu!' to suggest a mocking, scolding tone. It would also notice rhetorical questions ('Are not you surfeited?') and simple metaphors ('the breast of a peacock', 'one salmon more will make your boat sink') as showing Olivier’s pride/greed and warning of 'Ruin and disgrace'.

The writer shows the king’s power through the royal “we” and strong verbs. The phrase “We have been good enough” and “we granted you” underline his authority, as he can even “change your name” and give “armorial bearings”. This shows he controls Master Olivier’s status, even against “our nobility”.

Furthermore, rhetorical questions create a scolding tone. “Are not you surfeited?” and “Are you not afraid…?” make Master Olivier sound greedy and foolish. The exclamation “Pasque-Dieu!” sounds angry and adds force. He even insults him: “resembled your face too closely”.

Moreover, imagery and metaphor warn him. Calling him “the breast of a peacock” suggests vanity. The boat image, “one salmon more will make your boat sink”, shows danger if he asks for more. Personification in “Ruin and disgrace… press hard on the heels” threatens punishment, showing the king’s power and harsh tone.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The king sounds powerful because he says We have been good enough and we granted you, showing he is in charge and gives out rewards. His tone is mocking and threatening with insults like Le Mauvais (The Evil) and breast of a peacock, an exclamation Pasque- Dieu!, questions like Are not you surfeited?, and the warning Pride will be your ruin.

The writer uses the royal pronoun “we” in “We have been good enough” to show the king’s power. It sounds commanding and shows he decides Olivier’s name.

Moreover, the writer uses rhetorical questions like “Are not you surfeited?” to mock him and show control.

Furthermore, the exclamation “Pasque-Dieu!” and the insult “gossip” create a scolding, superior tone.

Additionally, the metaphors “breast of a peacock” and “one salmon more will make your boat sink” suggest pride and greed, and warn of “ruin and disgrace.” This shows the king’s power and a harsh, warning tone towards Master Olivier.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Majestic plural and self-congratulation assert authority and a patronising tone (We have been good enough)
• Sovereign power over identity shows control and contempt, with a mocking dig at appearance (change your name)
• Patronage over the elite signals dominance, granting honours despite “the great displeasure of our nobility” (we granted you)
• Animal imagery ridicules vanity, belittling the addressee while flaunting gift-giving power (breast of a peacock)
• Oath and exclamative punctuation project an imperious, impatient voice (Pasque- Dieu!)
• A barrage of rhetorical questions exerts control and shames greed (Are not you surfeited?)
• Extended metaphor of overloading warns of consequences and implied collapse if he overreaches (make your boat sink)
• Judicial, prophetic declarative delivers a moral sentence, asserting superior judgement (Pride will be your ruin)
• Belittling form of address shows contemptuous familiarity, lowering the addressee’s status (gossip)
• Abstract nouns and gnomic phrasing threaten inevitable consequences, sharpened by the unfinished clause (Ruin and disgrace)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how momentum intensifies by the end of 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: - Level 4 responses perceptively trace how cumulative chronology and anaphora build pace, noting the catalogue of promotions ("in ’68", "in ’69", repeated "then") that creates a piling rhythm and culminates in the brusque imperative "Shave me.", while tonal movement from "with severity" to "singular good humor" sustains momentum.

• They also analyse the structural pivot: the intrusive aside ("Our readers have not...") briefly brakes the flow before an outward turn as the king "suddenly opening it with extraordinary agitation" sees "yonder is a redness", a perspective shift that intensifies momentum by the end.

One way the writer structures momentum is through cumulative cataloguing and temporal anaphora in the king’s speech. The anaphoric 'In ’68… in ’69… in ’73…', coupled with paratactic 'then captain… then governor… then captain', drives the sequence forward. The repeated 'we' operates as a refrain that quickens the flow. As the offices grow, the list forms a crescendo, pressing upon Olivier, before the cadence snaps into imperatives: 'Pride will be your ruin… Consider this and hold your tongue.' This turn from accumulation to command pivots the scene from retrospective enumeration to immediate confrontation, increasing pace.

In addition, the writer inserts a strategic narrative intrusion—'Our readers have not, without doubt, waited…'—that reframes the episode. This extradiegetic aside, with triadic naming ('Olivier le Daim… Olivier the Devil… Olivier le Mauvais'), briefly slows the action to deepen characterisation. By delaying the shave and suspending the quarrel, the pause heightens anticipation; when the narrative snaps back to direct speech, the renewed immediacy produces an uptick in momentum.

A further structural feature is the rapid shift in focus and tone from talk to action. Stage-like business—'went off grumbling'; 'The king rose, approached the window'—is intensified by dynamic verbs and an abrupt volta: 'suddenly opening it… "Oh! yes!… yonder is a redness… ’Tis the bailiff burning."' Exclamatives, deictic 'yonder' and clipped exchanges ('Yes, yes… Ah, yes…') quicken the tempo. The recurring imperative 'Shave me' functions as a propulsive beat. Consequently, the extract moves from retrospective rhythm to urgent spectacle, with momentum intensifying at the close.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify that momentum builds through the king’s cumulative listing of favors—"in ’68… in ’69… in ’73", with repeated "then"—and through dialogue that shifts in tone from "uttered with severity" to "some gentleness", before the imperative "Shave me" propels the action. It would also note the brief authorial interruption ("Our readers have not…") that pauses the flow, followed by sudden action ("suddenly opening it") and a dramatic final revelation ("yonder is a redness… ’Tis the bailiff burning"), so the pace intensifies by the end.

One way the writer structures the text to create momentum is through cumulative chronology in the king’s speech. The catalogue — “In ’68… in ’69… in ’73…”, then “then captain… then governor…” — creates a rolling rhythm. Repeated temporal references and “then” drive the scene forward and pile pressure on Olivier, before the pivoting maxim “Pride will be your ruin.”

In addition, a shift in focus and narrative perspective varies pace. The intrusive narrator turns to “Our readers” to explain “Olivier le Mauvais”. This brief digression slows movement to add context, so that when focus returns — “Accordingly, Olivier le Mauvais remained motionless…” — the action resumes with renewed energy.

A further structural feature is acceleration into a climax. Dialogue and imperatives (“Shave me”; “Go get what you need”) shorten units of text. Then a rapid sequence of dynamic verbs — “The king rose, approached the window, and suddenly opening it…” — culminates in an exclamative: “yonder is a redness… ’Tis the bailiff burning,” which widens the focus and intensifies momentum at the end. This sits alongside a tonal shift from severity to good humour to alarm, increasing forward drive.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds momentum by piling up a chronological list of the king’s favors in dialogue (e.g., In ’68, in ’69, then) to quicken the pace, before a sudden switch to action and urgent exclamations (suddenly opening it, Oh! yes!, ’Tis the bailiff burning.) that make the ending feel faster. A brief narrator aside (Our readers) pauses the flow for background so the return to the scene seems abrupt and heightens the sense of movement.

One way the writer structures the text to build momentum is the long listing at the start of the extract. The king runs through time markers, “In ’68… in ’69… in ’73…,” and repeated “then.” This piling up speeds the pace and pressures Olivier.

In addition, there is a shift in focus in the middle to the narrator, which briefly slows, but the quick dialogue returns with short sentences and commands, like “Shave me.” The change of tone from severe to joking then keeps the scene moving and keeps the reader interested.

A further structural feature is the ending, where action suddenly happens. The king “rose” and opens the window, and there are exclamations, “Oh! yes!” and “’Tis the bailiff burning.” This change in setting and the exclamation marks increase pace and urgency, so momentum peaks by the end and makes us want to read on.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the writer creates momentum by listing past actions with dates like "In ’68... in ’69... In November, ’73...", so events feel like they’re piling up. It then speeds up at the end when the king "suddenly opening" the window exclaims "Oh! yes!" at the "redness in the sky" and "’Tis the bailiff burning.", making it feel urgent.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create momentum is a long list of dates. The king repeats “In ’68… in ’69…” adding jobs. This piling up pushes the scene forward and feels fast.

In addition, quick dialogue and short sentences like “Shave me.” and “Good!” speed the pace.

A further feature is a change in focus at the end: the king opens the window and shouts, “yonder is a redness… ’Tis the bailiff burning.” The exclamation makes the ending urgent and adds momentum.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Chronological listing of favors accelerates pace through cumulative detail, stacking pressures that drive the scene forward (In ’68)
• Repetition of sequential connectors compresses time into rapid steps, creating breathless forward motion (then captain)
• A volley of rhetorical questions shifts from inventory to confrontation, quickening cadence and urgency (Are not you)
• A terse aphoristic warning acts as a pivot from rebuke to impending consequence, propelling tension (Ruin and disgrace)
• Tonal shift from severity to calm resets but sustains motion, preventing closure and keeping dialogue moving (some gentleness)
• Intrusive narrator aside broadens perspective briefly, building anticipation before returning to the unfolding action (Providence, the great maker)
• Imperatives convert talk into task, nudging the scene from debate to deed and maintaining kinetic energy (Shave me)
• Action beats transition to physical movement, changing gear from static court talk to dynamic activity (approached the window)
• Suddenness and exclamations inject a jolt of urgency, spiking the rhythm at the point of shift (suddenly opening it)
• Climactic external reveal reframes stakes at the end, peaking momentum with a decisive, alarming turn (’Tis the bailiff burning)

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, where the King lists all of Olivier's promotions, it shows how much power he holds over the barber. The writer suggests this long list is actually a threat, reminding Olivier that everything he was given can also be taken away.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the King's power over Olivier
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the list of promotions as a threat
• 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, to a large extent, that the King’s accumulative catalogue and legalistic diction—we instituted you, we made you, we graciously settled on you... letters patent sealed doubly with green wax—plus material control (Out of the five sols... there are three sols for you and we have the rest), turn the list into a veiled threat intensified by admonitory rhetoric (Are you not afraid that one salmon more will make your boat sink?; Pride will be your ruin... Consider this and hold your tongue). It would also note tonal modulation—These words, uttered with severity giving way to with some gentleness before the curt command Shave me—to show the writer presents power as both coercive and performative, supporting the view that what is given can be withdrawn at the King’s whim.

I largely agree with the statement: the extended catalogue of Olivier’s promotions is weaponised as a reminder of the King’s absolute patronage—and therefore his power to revoke. The cumulatively built list, studded with dates and legal formulae—“in ’73… in ’75… in ’78… in ’79,” with “letters patent sealed doubly with green wax”—creates a ledger-like tone. This bureaucratic precision and the anaphoric insistence on the majestic plural “we instituted… we graciously settled… we made you… we granted you” foreground the King as sole agent. The semantic field of gift and grace (“graciously,” “good enough”) is pointedly condescending, encoding the implicit threat that what is bestowed can be un-bestowed.

That latent menace hardens through tonal shift into admonition. The rhetorical questions—“Are not you surfeited?” and the extended metaphor, “Are you not afraid that one salmon more will make your boat sink?”—function as a warning against overreach. The aphoristic maxim “Pride will be your ruin… Ruin and disgrace always press hard on the heels of pride” reads like a judicial sentence; its gnomic certainty suggests consequences already in motion. Even the financial minutiae—“Out of the five sols fine… three sols for you and we have the rest”—dramatise micro-control, the King parcelling income and reminding Olivier who takes “the rest.” Identity itself is shown as royal largesse: “We have been good enough to change your name of Le Mauvais,” a chilling assertion that the crown can rewrite reputation as easily as it writes offices. The aside “of which you cause yourself to be called comte” undercuts Olivier’s pretensions, while “to the great displeasure of our nobility” implies his elevation is precarious without the King’s shield—another veiled threat.

Structurally, the writer intensifies and then relaxes the pressure to display dominance. After Olivier’s muttered insolence, Louis XI is “far from being irritated,” and with studied gentleness “was forgetting that I made you my ambassador,” ostentatiously adding yet another honour. This ironic benevolence, paired with imperatives—“Consider this and hold your tongue… Shave me… Go get what you need”—reasserts hierarchy: the King can chide, reward, and command in the same breath. The playful antithesis—“he has taken hold upon us by the whole body, and you hold us only by the chin”—miniaturises Olivier’s influence. Finally, the abrupt pivot to state matters—“yonder is a redness… ’Tis the bailiff burning”—structurally sidelines the barber, showing how easily the King’s attention (and therefore favour) can turn elsewhere.

Overall, the list operates as a calculated threat masked as reminiscence: a public tally of debts designed to discipline. While the surface humour softens it, the underlying message is unmistakable—what the King has “made” he can unmake.

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 that the list is a veiled threat, showing how the cumulative repetition of the King’s giving (we instituted you..., we made you..., we granted you..., we have the rest) asserts control, and how rhetorical devices—the metaphor and imperatives (Are you not afraid that one salmon more will make your boat sink?, Pride will be your ruin, hold your tongue)—warn Olivier his status is precarious, while noting the later softening (let us not get angry... Shave me) briefly tempers but does not remove the power imbalance.

I largely agree that the King’s catalogue of Olivier’s promotions is used to display his dominance and to warn that what is granted can be withdrawn. The writer foregrounds power through a cumulative, chronological list: “in ’75… in ’78… in ’79… then captain… then governor… then captain,” a piling-up (enumeration and anaphora) that overwhelms Olivier with proofs of royal patronage. The repeated royal plural “we instituted… we made you… we graciously settled” underlines that every advance depends on the King’s will. Even bureaucratic detail, “letters patent sealed doubly with green wax,” confers legal weight, while the fiscal line “there are three sols for you and we have the rest” reminds him that the King controls the purse. Strikingly, “We have been good enough to change your name” extends that control to Olivier’s identity itself.

The threatening edge is sharpened by tone and rhetoric. The narration flags it as severe: “These words, uttered with severity.” A string of rhetorical questions—“Are not you surfeited?… Are you not afraid that one salmon more will make your boat sink?”—uses extended metaphor to cast Olivier’s ambition as greedy and precarious. The proverbial warning “Pride will be your ruin” and the imperative “Consider this and hold your tongue” sound overtly admonitory, implying that the flow of favours can reverse.

However, the writer also shows the King modulating his power. After Olivier’s mutter, Louis “resumed with some gentleness,” even adding another gift—“I was forgetting that I made you my ambassador”—which both flatters and reasserts superiority. The juxtaposition of severity and affability is strategic: he ends with imperatives—“Shave me… fulfil your office”—reducing Olivier to function. The witty comparison that the physician “has taken hold upon us by the whole body, and you… only by the chin” belittles him further. Finally, the sharp structural shift to public crisis—“yonder is a redness… ’Tis the bailiff burning”—shows how easily the King moves on, leaving Olivier insignificant.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the list operates as a calculated reminder of dependence—a veiled threat—tempered by a performative, mocking leniency that itself reinforces the King’s absolute control.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Level 2 responses would mostly agree, noting that the King’s repeated giving phrases (“we instituted you”, “we made you”, “we granted you”) show his control over Olivier. They would use simple examples like “Pride will be your ruin”, the question “Are not you surfeited?”, and the narration “uttered with severity” to say the list feels like a threat because what he gives could be taken away.

I mostly agree with the statement. When the King reels off Olivier’s promotions, it clearly shows his control, and it feels like a warning. The long list is very precise and official: “we instituted you keeper of the Wood of Vincennes,” “in ’75, gruyer of the forest of Rouvray,” “by letters patent sealed doubly with green wax.” This listing, with dates and places, and the repeated royal “we,” reminds Olivier that every honour came directly from the King. It suggests the King could also undo them.

The writer also makes the list sound threatening through the King’s language. He even boasts, “we have been good enough to change your name of Le Mauvais,” and gave him “armorial bearings… which give you the breast of a peacock.” The image of a “peacock” hints at pride, and the King follows with rhetorical questions and metaphor: “Are you not afraid that one salmon more will make your boat sink?” This builds a clear warning, reinforced by the imperative, “Consider this and hold your tongue,” and the narration says the words were spoken “with severity.” The explicit line, “Pride will be your ruin,” makes the threat open.

However, the tone shifts afterwards. The King becomes gentler: “let us not get angry; we are old friends… Shave me.” This softens the mood, but still shows power, as he orders Olivier back to his role. Overall, I agree to a large extent: the list functions as a reminder of the King’s power, and the warnings around it make it feel like a threat that what was given can be taken away.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because the King shows his power by saying “we instituted you” and “we made you,” listing roles like “keeper of the Wood of Vincennes.” The warning “Pride will be your ruin” makes it sound like a threat that he could take it all back.

I mostly agree with the statement because the King’s long list makes his power over Olivier very clear, and it feels like a warning. The writer uses a list of promotions—‘keeper of the Wood of Vincennes… gruyer… then captain… then governor… then captain of the bridge’—to pile up all the things the King has given him. It shows he controls Olivier’s job and money, like ‘we have the rest,’ as if he can take it back. The writer also uses questions and a simile: ‘Are not you surfeited?’ and ‘one salmon more will make your boat sink’, which sound threatening. The commands, ‘Consider this and hold your tongue,’ and the phrase ‘uttered with severity’ make the tone harsh.

However, at the end the King softens: ‘with singular good humor’ he says, ‘we are old friends… Shave me.’ This friendly tone reduces the threat a little, but it still shows he has power. Overall, I agree that the list is a warning and shows the King’s control over Olivier.

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:

• Accumulative, chronological listing of offices foregrounds the King as sole benefactor, so the catalogue reads as an implicit warning he can unmake it all (then captain of)
• Insistent first-person plural centres royal agency and Olivier’s dependence, sharpening the sense of removable favour (we made you)
• Legalistic specificity adds institutional weight, implying the same authority could revoke the grants, heightening menace (letters patent sealed doubly)
• Mention of elite resentment suggests only the King’s favor protects Olivier, making his position feel precarious and thus threatening (great displeasure of our nobility)
• Power to rename him performs symbolic domination and humiliation, reminding him the King controls even his identity (change your name)
• Gnomic moralising escalates to an explicit caution of consequences, turning the list into a moral threat (Pride will be your ruin)
• Extended fishing/boat metaphor recasts generosity as danger, warning that more reward could cause downfall (one salmon more)
• Imperatives shift from reminder to command, asserting coercive control and silencing dissent (hold your tongue)
• Tonal shift from harshness to affability feels calculated; the humor softens surface hostility but keeps the leverage intact (uttered with severity)
• Financial detail underscores material leverage within the list, reminding him the King can alter his income at will (we have the rest)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A society dedicated to exploring lost pathways is asking for creative pieces for its journal.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

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

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a journey to an unmapped place.

(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:

At the edge of the town, where maps hesitate and hedgerows begin to argue with wire, a line runs away from certainty. The rails, mottled with verdigris and the brittle lace of rust, gleam reluctantly under a thinning sun. Grass has learnt the geometry of sleepers, tufting each dark plank with patient green. Bramble tendrils, articulate as fingers, test the metal and keep it. The air smells of creosote bleached by decades, of nettles bruised, of damp iron. The route does not announce itself; it persists—thin, unwavering—through burdock and willowherb, an old thought refusing to end.

On either flank the banks rise, stitched with roots and candled by foxglove spires. A slow wind combs the seedheads and sets the dock to whisper; finches flit in amber detonations. Underfoot, ballast stones—milk-pale quartz, coal-black slag—shift slightly, a hushed percussion. In the litter: a fragment of ceramic, a bolt furred with rust. Once there was velocity here, thunder and rhythm and destination; now there is something quieter but no less exacting—stillness, and the sharp, clean articulation of it. No timetable, no whistle, no hurry: only the long patience of return.

Ahead the cutting contracts; light narrows; the route draws breath. The tunnel mouth waits, soot-ringed, its arch veiled with ivy that drips seed and shadow. A coolness moves out to meet me—slate-cold—and the smell changes: wet stone, old smoke, underground water. Each drip from the crown finds a note and repeats it: drip, drip, drip, counting. My voice, when tested, turns thin and travels; the walls give it back with a lag, as if memory itself were answering. It names itself by absence.

Within, colour concedes to chiaroscuro. A bicycle frame, ribbed with rust, lies half-swallowed in silt; a white fungal bloom has mapped a country of its own on the ceiling. The rails run on regardless, twin signatures inscribed with intent. I run a hand along the wall; it sweats. The texture feels older than my touch. Yet there is kindness too: the steadying flatness, the shelter from wind, the way the route holds a human pace without complaint. Closer and closer, closer and closer, the echo knits to a point.

Then, abruptly, the pupil of light dilates and I am delivered to a different season. Beyond the far portal, the line swims out into a tangle of hawthorn and ash; a disused platform founders under moss, its coping stones tilting like loose teeth. There are nettles in the ticket window. There is a sapling growing where the clock once hung. And yet the direction remains indisputable, arrow-true. A route is a promise, even when neglected: an intention set down in iron. This one is a sentence without its full stop; held, not broken—waiting, remembering, pointing towards whatever mattered.

Option B:

At the edge of the map, the paper whitened, as if the world itself had inhaled and held its breath. Lines that had marched so confidently—roads, rivers, tidy contour rings—simply stopped; numerals, so busy elsewhere, fell suddenly silent. Cartographers claim completeness; they draw lattices like cages over oceans; they annotate and footnote and calibrate. Yet there is always an edge: an absence that refuses ink.

Jude folded the atlas until that blank glare stared up from the kitchen table. The bulb above him fizzed with a tired halo; steam climbed from the kettle, threading the cold. He packed with the solemnity of ceremony: a compass with a sulking needle; a stub of carpenter’s pencil; rope, neatly coiled; a battered flask; an oilskin; and, between two pages, a photograph whose corners had softened with handling. His grandfather’s hand lingered in the margins—thin, patient script: keep left of the headland; follow the ridge when it forgets you. Not instruction so much as invitation.

He felt, in truth, less heroic than he had rehearsed—more like a foal on unfamiliar legs—yet he fastened the rucksack and stepped into a morning that smelt of wet stone and brine. At the harbour wall, tar and salt braided the air; gulls heckled the dawn; the tide heaved against black tires with the slow, sullen strength of something that could not be hurried. Beyond the last lamppost, concrete surrendered to thrift and heather. No roads. No names. No promises.

He kept the sea shouldered to his left. Wind unstitched the surface into quicksilver scales, and clouds crouched like sullen cattle, bruising the horizon. Ahead, the path masqueraded itself as a sheep-track, then as a ribbon, then as a rumour—its stones flecked with lichen, its puddles tin-bright. He moved with a care that was part caution, part reverence; to walk toward a blank felt like trespass, as though he were entering a room someone had just left. Even his breath adapted, lowering its volume, acknowledging the hush.

The last signpost had no arrows, only a splintered head and a stain where letters had once declared their certainties. He laughed—too loudly—and felt the sound disobey, absorbed by the moor’s blunt ear. The compass jittered, reconsidered, then pointed not north but somewhere adjacent to conviction. His watch hummed faithfully; then not. It seemed melodramatic—he knew it—but he could not deny the way birdsong thinned into a single thread and snapped.

Beyond the cairn of three deliberate stones, the ground changed its mind: rushes thickened; earth gave underfoot with a sucked sigh; a scent of iron rose. He paused (not from fear, he told himself, though fear had a voice), opened the atlas, and touched the white with his thumb. Cold paper. No resistance. Still, when he set the pencil to it, the graphite skated uselessly, as if the blank had its own polite refusal.

How hard could it be to walk into nothing?

He chose a footstep and then another; the seam of the known loosened; and Jude went on, past the last contour line, into the uncharted brightness that did not quite feel like light.

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

Option A:

The route forgets itself where the rails slip beneath a curtain of ivy, and the air, suddenly cooler, pulls at my skin like a river’s undertow. Drowsy afternoon light is shredded by leaves; spears of pale gold tilt across the gravel. The sleepers, half-sunk, are furred with moss; they look soft, but they are stubborn as bones. Seedlings stipple the path between them, bright and opportunistic.

Foxgloves and buttercups rise like patient sentries; thistles lean in conspiratorially. Cobwebs ladder between rail and nettle, beaded with last night’s weather. A tang of rust and rain—petrichor and iron—threads the air. The ballast is a tessellation of ash-grey shale; the rails—once ruler-straight—are gently bowed by roots and time. I hear bees; the soft susurration of leaves; the far shudder of a lorry that never arrives.

Then the tunnel: a black, oval silence. Its brickwork is freckled with lichen and long tears of mineral; the mortar has bloomed white, as though frost never left. The mouth is scalloped by fronds, a fringe that moves even when the air is still. I wait at the lip while its umbral throat exhales a cold that smells of stone. From inside comes a repetitive drip, steady as a clock not quite telling the right time, and an echo that unspools—thin, metallic—until it finds the curve and folds back.

A route like this is a palimpsest, and if I brush the dust with my fingertips, history comes up in smudges. I picture a locomotive shouldering through—coal-scented, muscle-heavy—its bodywork throwing light in quick coins; I was never here, and yet I can almost feel the ground give. The iron remembers weight; the air remembers rhythm; the hedges, forced to the side, remember how to grow back.

Beyond the arch the world is not erased, only delayed: a ribbon of dark to somewhere unguessable. It is forgotten, yes, but not defeated; bramble and fern have revised it with the slow authorship of roots. I hesitate at the threshold, apprenticed to the dark the way an eye is taught by dusk. My boot scrapes, small, definitive. Forward, and forward, and forward—into the cool, into the grain of a place that has learned to be quiet.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour of thresholds; the sky paling. On the kitchen table the maps lay open like patient creatures, their veins of roads and rivers coloured neatly; names gathered in tidy fonts; boundaries crisp. In the middle of one, a clean white oblong—where the cartographer’s pen had hesitated, and stopped. I had stared at that blank since childhood. Gran would touch it with her spoon and say, almost conspiratorially, 'They left room for courage there.' This morning, I folded the blank carefully, as if it might bruise.

I packed deliberately: compass, tin cup, a flask; notebook; pencil stub sharpened to a stubborn point. My boots waited by the door. My phone was charged, then turned off; there are places where signal cannot translate what a body feels. Under my ribs, something thrummed—fear and excitement threaded so closely I couldn’t unpick them. What if the white wasn’t empty at all? What if it swallowed names—and me? A ridiculous thought, I decided, not entirely unwelcome.

The bus grumbled to the end of the line and spat me out by a hedge frosted with spider silk. 'No through road,' the sign insisted. The driver leaned from his window. 'You walking on?' he asked, not unkindly. I nodded. He shrugged—people are always journeying—and pulled away. Beyond the sign the lane gave up; tarmac surrendered to dirt; dirt thinned into grass. Dew soaked my laces; the air smelt of iron and nettles. Larks rose, a scatter of punctuation in the wide sentence of the sky.

I kept the white square folded at the top of my rucksack, a talisman. Hedges subsided into hawthorn and then to nothing; low mist unspooled across hollows and pooled in the dip of an old quarry. The world quietened. I tried to walk as if I knew where I was going; each footstep made up its own instruction. Brambles crowded in, their barbs writing careless script along my trousers, as if the land wrote back.

At the lip of the quarry, the ground widened and wavered. The map’s clean white met the earth’s complexity: soft ground, a skin of water, rushes ticking. Beyond this point there were no names; only the bright cold of morning and the sound of something moving, slow and tidal, under the surface. I took one step, then another, and the fog accepted me—cool, absolute, like the first page of a book. Somewhere, far off where no church had ever stood, a bell rang once.

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

Option A:

The track begins where the hedgerow thins: two rust-sheathed rails surfacing like old bones. Grass flicks across them, knotting against sleepers padded with moss. Ahead, the tunnel mouths the hillside, a black ellipse in soot-streaked brick—patient, unblinking. Most maps ignore this line, scratched across the land then rubbed out by weather and forgetfulness. No whistle, no schedule—only a draught that smells of damp iron and leaf-rot, like a cupboard nobody opens.

At first, it seems impassable. Brambles lace from fence to fence; nettles lean in, impertinent and bright; ferns reach like green hands. Yet a narrow thread persists, tamped by foxes or a solitary boot. The sleepers, swollen and splintered, dictate a clumsy rhythm underfoot—tap, shift, pause. A sigh runs in the rails when the wind comes, as if they remember weight. There’s a low tang in the air: creosote faded to a memory, rust flaking like cinnamon if you dare touch.

Then the tunnel takes you. The cool breath of it slides around your ankles and climbs; daylight thins to a pewter smear behind. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound finds corners and comes back changed, deeper, a little dissonant. Brick is slick with a fur of green—lichen, algae, all the small soft alphabets that write on stone. Once, someone chalked a name here; the ghost of it floats above a rusted pin. A timetable curls on a noticeboard that no longer notices. When a car passes far above you feel it rather than hear it, a tremor along the spine of the place.

Where does it go? To a platform scalloped with weeds, perhaps, the paint on the sign washed to a ghost; to a small station house where ivy has found the bedroom and the calendar still says June. Or further: under fields and back gardens, under a river that slides by with a cold shoulder. It used to carry coal, letters, laughter—stitched through the county like thread; now it carries only time. At last you turn. The mouth widens; the sky is messy with birds. You listen for the old rhythm. Only breeze. Only hush.

Option B:

Maps end politely. They shiver into undecided paper—white space where the printer wouldn't guess. On the kitchen table my Ordnance Survey spread across the wood like a patient; rivers curled; roads shouted in orange. In the top corner there was nothing: no path, no names. Just the blank everyone said wasn't there.

I zipped my rucksack and listened to the rain tapping at the window. Mum had already gone; the house held its breath. Grandad’s brass compass sat in my palm, its needle twitching at north, promising nothing. I had bread, a torch, a pencil, too many hopes. “Come back by dark,” someone had said, half joking. I meant to—really, I did.

Outside, the morning smelt of wet metal and salt. The path began as it always did: gravel, then mud, then the unkind give of the marsh. With each step my boots filled at the seams, the cold climbing up my laces. Ahead, the red dashed line on the map would have swung left. I went straight.

There is a moment when the known stops: a hedge ends; a sign gives up; the sound of the road dissolves. The mist gathered into a low wall—not thick enough to be a curtain, not thin enough to ignore. Beyond it was the unprinted. Rumours said it hid lost dogs and wandering lights, and a shore that listened.

I checked my phone: no signal, just the smug outline of a battery. “Cowardice,” I told myself, “is the real bog.” I touched the compass—unmoved—and stepped forward. Cold reached me like a hand from under the table; the ground turned springy, then sullen. By then the map in my head had run out. Still, I kept walking, drawing an invisible line no cartographer would ever sign. Somewhere to my right, something clicked—maybe a branch, maybe not.

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

Option A:

Grass seeps between the rails as if the earth has risen to swallow them. The tracks run away into a mouth of soot-black stone; the tunnel sits there and watches, patient. Sunlight falls in thin, slanted strips, catching the dust and the slow wings of a moth. The air tastes faintly of metal, like old coins warmed in a pocket. Dandelions lean out from the ballast, their clocks blown bare, trembling at every whisper of wind.

I stand on a sleeper and it creaks softly. Under my shoe, the wood is furred with moss, and the iron sings with a dull hum when I tap it; something far inside answers. Brambles snag at my coat with small, insistent hands, and nettles write quick fire along my fingers. The path is narrow but clear enough, a narrow promise. I step forward, and forward again, even though the mouth ahead is dark as night.

Inside, the world cools. Sound becomes a different shape: drips counting time, the brittle skitter of a pebble, my breath turning into mist. The stones sweat. Graffiti peels in pale petals, names nobody will remember. The darkness is almost velvet, not quite; it brushes my cheeks as I pass. I imagine the long-ago tremor of wheels, the light of a lantern, a guard who whistled and didn’t know his route would be forgotten.

Beyond the grey circle, there might be trees again, or a platform swallowed by ivy. Perhaps there is simply more dark. I think of maps rolled up in drawers—lines faded, destinations crossed out. Who came here last? The route waits without complaint, stitched shut by roots, but still, somehow, open. I turn back, just once, to look. The tunnel blinks like a slow creature. It will be here tomorrow; it will be here when people remember.

Option B:

Dawn. The time when the town shakes out its sleep and the air smells like wet iron from the canal. On my table lay a map curled at the corners, roads like veins, fields like pale squares, and then a blank—no paths, no names, no helpful numbers. The cartographer had paused there: a hesitation in ink. Uncharted.

I packed my rucksack with care: compass with a scratched face, torch, notebook, a scarf that smelt faintly of woodsmoke, and Gran's small brass key, warm from my palm. She used to whisper about a place beyond the quarry where the ground hummed and birds changed their songs. The blank matched her stories. It made my stomach pull tight, like laces tugged too hard. Was I being foolish? Maybe. But I had practised this walk a hundred times in my head.

Outside, the morning opened slowly and the street stones were damp. The bus took me as far as it could, to the last stop where the pavement sank into nettles. I got off and the air was different—quieter, but not empty. Wind shivered through the hedges; a rook shouted once and then watched me, as if it knew. I studied the map again, traced the black line of the lane to the old fence, and then nothing. Past the fence was just white paper.

I walked. Boots thudding, breath counting time. The lane narrowed into a track and the track, grudgingly, faded into wild grass studded with seed heads that brushed my knees and left a dusting on my trousers. My compass needle trembled for a second, a tiny quiver, and steadied. I looked back at the last signpost—its arrow pointed helpfully to places with names I knew—and then I stepped over the low fence into the unmapped field. The world felt held, like a breath before a word. I took another step.

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

Option A:

The forgotten route begins where the hedge opens like a ripped curtain. Two rails, scabbed with rust, slide under a mess of nettles and fern. Grass pokes through the sleepers in steady lines; patient, stubborn. Sunlight leaks in a ribbon and makes the metal blink. I can almost hear what it used to carry — the clatter, the whistle, the rush of breath. Now only insects fuss, and a thrush taps at a snail, back and forth.

Farther on, the trees knit together and make a green tunnel before the real one; a stone arch yawns ahead, black as soot. The air changes: colder, damp, it smells of iron and old leaves. Water threads down the wall like tired tears; lichen paints pale maps nobody follows. A warped sign leans — Danger — the letters flaked to ghosts. I brush past bramble and my sleeve snags; the thorns hold on like small hands. Sound behaves differently; every step multiplies, every breath gets an echo.

This route has lost its purpose but not its shape. Someone once rattled through here to the factory, to the coast, to somewhere worth writing. Who remembers that timetable now? The tunnel chews the rails, then spits them into more weeds, and beyond that the line veers to a forgotten halt, platforms sunk into soil. I picture benches under corrugated roofs and a clock stuck at a peculiar minute. The map in my head is vague, yet it pulls. The way waits, quiet and stubborn.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour of beginnings; mist on the river, hedges beaded with cold; the sky pale as porcelain. My map ended with a neat blue line, then nothing: an empty square that looked like a dare.

I folded the tired paper and slid it into my rucksack beside a torch, a sandwich, and Mum's old compass. It clicked like a small heart. They said there was a track beyond Blackthorn Gate, but nobody marked it. No names. No numbers. No lines.

The stile creaked. Nettles leaned in, brushing my wrists, stinging like tiny matches. Birdsong got caught in the hedges; water muttered under stones. After a while the path thinned and the map stopped being useful, it just fluttered behind me on its thread of tape; I felt brave and stupid at the same time.

The compass spun once, then settled, but the needle didn't point at any road I knew. The ground smelled damp and sweet, like apples left in a shed after harvest. Then the gate appeared—not on my map—a low timber gate with letters burned into it: Here, Perhaps.

I laughed, then stopped because the air changed; it thickened, the sound of the main road faded to a thought. What waited beyond felt close and far, like the sea when you can't see it but still hear it.

I stepped through. One boot found mud; the other found something not quite earth. I tied a ribbon from my coat to the post—a small red flag, a promise I could come back. I definately would.

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

Option A:

The old line curves into the hill. Rails half-lost under nettles and moss, the wooden sleepers soaked and soft. Sunlight struggles through leaves, and the tunnel ahead yawns like a dark mouth. Rust runs down the stones like tears. It looks forgotten; it also looks patient, waiting. The air is cool and wet, with a metal taste. Birds keep quiet, and a steady drip keeps time.

Further along, I touch the rail: it is slick and cold. Gravel shifts, crunching under my trainers. I keep to the sleepers and push bracken aside—its fingers scratch my wrists. Once, a train must have hammered this way, again and again, busy as a heart. Now the weeds rule. I think the route remembers, and I try to imagine whistles, smoke, faces leaning out. My breath feels loud.

At the tunnel mouth, the light tightens. The temperature drops, like stepping into a cellar, and a colder wind creeps out of the dark. I hesitate: it is only a path, old metal, wood, weeds, but it feels deeper than that. The smell is damp and dusty and slightly sweet. I take one step, then another. Somewhere inside, water taps a slow clock. The forgotten route carries on. Waiting.

Option B:

Morning. The map lay flat on the kitchen table like a patient, and a pale blank sat in the corner of it, a place with no name. My finger hovered there, trembleing a bit. How do you walk into a place that isn’t on any map? I could hear the kettle click off, smell the burnt toast, feel the small weight of the compass in my pocket. First, I drew a circle around the gap. Then I packed: water, a torch, biscuits, my phone with no signal out there, probably.

By noon I was at the edge of the woods. The last signpost pointed left or right; I went straight. The path narrowed and the bracken scratched my legs. Birds whistled like questions. I checked the compass; it quivered and the needle shivered north, then somewhere else. That wasn’t normal. After that, I slowed down, counting steps—ten, twenty, thirty—just making sure. The trees leaned in, as if they knew something I didn’t.

Finally the track just stopped: no road, no gate, no lines, only a sweep of grey rock and a thin ribbon of water. Wind pressed against my back. The place was real, and yet it felt like a secret, and I was late.

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

Option A:

The old tracks are a forgotten route. They slide into a black tunnel like a mouth. Grass covers the rails, rust and stones. The air is damp and a bit cold. No one comes here, no one calls.

I step on the wooden sleepers and they creak. Drip, drip, drip from the tunnel. Where does it go? Maybe to another town, maybe nowhere. I look down the line and it just keeps going and going and I cant see the end and the dark sits there like a wall.

Bramble hooks at my coat, nettles sting my hand, I pull away slow. The wind pushes the leaves and it feels like a hand on my back. The route looks tired, like it went to sleep and forgot how to wake up. It waits for trains that wont come.

dark.

I keep walking... slowly, one foot then the next, along the quiet line.

Option B:

Morning. New light, cold air, my bag on the floor. The map is wrong. The bit I need is white. Like snow, like a blank page. My stomach feels funny.

I zip my bag and the zip bites my finger, I suck it, it taste like metal. Mum says don't go.

I nod.

But I go anyway because the bus was leaving and I can't wait forever. The wind push at my back like a hand and the door bangs too loud. The road out of town get smaller and then it stops by a broken gate with no sign. I climb over, clutching the empty map, it don't. Mud sucks my shoes. Birds shout and the air smell wet. I walk and walk, past a bend, a low hill, I think a path will appear but there is no lines here, only trees. Where am I going

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

Option A:

The route is old and gone. The rails are rusty and bent and grass crawls over it like hair. I walk on sleepers, they are soft and wet and smell bad. It is quiet, only a drip drip from the tunnel mouth. The tunnel is a black mouth and I am small. I think trains used to come here but now nobody, noone cares. There is a cold wind, my jacket dont help. I hear a bird then nothing, I am hungry. I go a bit, then I stop, the dark is to deep and the way feels forgoten.

Option B:

It was morning and the bus was late, I had a bag and a map with a blank bit where the trees go. Mum said dont go far but I was going anyway to the place that is not on the map. The road was long and the wind was cold, my shoes were wet and I felt like a small boat. My friend text me but there was no signal so I put it away. I got off early, we walked into the forrest. It was quiet, like mistery. The sign was broke and then a cat ran, also I remember lunch, I forgot it.