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 How does the narrator respond to the sadness and kind words of the narrator's friends as the last night at home approaches?: The narrator pretends to be cheerful despite being close to tears. – 1 mark
• 1.2 What approached?: the last night at home – 1 mark
• 1.3 What seemed to swell the narrator’s heart?: a sudden anguish – 1 mark
• 1.4 What did the narrator still affect to be?: gay – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:

1 But there was a feeling of bitterness mingling with the latter occupation too; and when it was done—when all was ready for my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home approached—a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart. My dear friends looked so sad, and spoke so very kindly, that I could scarcely keep my eyes from overflowing: but I still affected to be gay. I had taken my

6 last ramble with Mary on the moors, my last walk in the garden, and round the house; I had fed, with her, our pet pigeons for the last time—the pretty creatures that we had tamed to peck their food from our hands: I had given a farewell stroke to all their silky backs as they crowded in my lap. I had tenderly kissed my own peculiar favourites, the pair of snow-white fantails; I

11 had played my last tune on the old familiar piano, and sung my last song to papa: not the last, I hoped, but the last for what appeared to me a very long time. And, perhaps, when I did these things again it would be with different feelings: circumstances might be changed, and this house might never be my settled home again. My dear little friend, the kitten, would certainly be

How does the writer use language here to show the narrator’s feelings about saying goodbye to home? 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 the tension between inner grief and outward composure, showing how emotive metaphor and juxtaposition ("bitterness mingling," a "sudden anguish" that "seemed to swell my heart" versus "I still affected to be gay" and near "overflowing" tears) communicate suppressed sorrow. It would also trace how the cumulative, anaphoric farewells ("my last ramble," "last walk," "last tune," "last song") with tender, sensory imagery ("silky backs," "snow-white fantails," "old familiar piano"), modal uncertainty ("might never be my settled home again"), and long, complex sentence forms build a ritualised finality and profound attachment to home.

The writer uses emotive lexis and personification to convey conflicted grief. The abstract noun “bitterness” “mingling” with preparations shows joy tainted by loss, while “a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart” personifies feeling as pressure beyond control. The juxtaposition “overflowing: but I still affected to be gay”, and the caesural colon, pivots from involuntary tears to a performed cheerfulness, exposing a protective façade.

Moreover, the anaphora of “my last…” creates a semantic field of finality and a ritualised catalogue of farewells. The cumulative, semicolon‑linked sentence and polysyndeton (“and… and”) slow the rhythm, mirroring reluctance to let go. Tactile imagery—“peck…from our hands,” “silky backs…crowded in my lap”—renders intimacy, sharpening the pain of severing everyday bonds.

Furthermore, affectionate epithets and possessives foreground attachment. “My dear friends,” “my own peculiar favourites,” and the diminutive “dear little friend, the kitten” elevate animals to companions, personifying the household as family. The “old familiar piano” and “snow‑white fantails” blend nostalgia and purity, idealising home as a sanctuary she is pained to leave.

Additionally, sentence forms and modality voice anxiety about the future. Parenthetical insertions—“when all was ready for my departure on the morrow” and “not the last, I hoped”—intrude like fretful asides, while tentative modality (“perhaps,” “might be changed,” “might never be my settled home again”) admits insecurity. “Settled” connotes safety; the absolute “never” sharpens loss, crystallising a tender yet fearful goodbye.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how emotive language and metaphor—“a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart”, “keep my eyes from overflowing”—juxtaposed with “I still affected to be gay” reveal deep sadness masked by forced cheerfulness. It would also identify repetition and listing of leave-taking (“my last ramble”, “my last walk”, “last time”), tender imagery (“silky backs”, “snow-white fantails”, the “old familiar piano”), and long, flowing sentences to show her affectionate attachment and reluctance to let go of home.

The writer uses emotive language and metaphor to convey the narrator’s sadness and restraint. Emotive phrases such as "my dear friends looked so sad" and "sudden anguish" foreground her pain, while metaphors like "seemed to swell my heart" and "keep my eyes from overflowing" present emotion as a force barely contained. The contrast in "but I still affected to be gay" shows she is masking pain with forced cheerfulness, highlighting the tension of saying goodbye.

Furthermore, the repetition of "last" functions as anaphora: "last ramble... last walk... for the last time." This repeated phrase emphasises finality and loss. The long, cumulative sentence, linked by semicolons, forms a list of rituals, mirroring her reluctance to let go as she lingers over each memory.

Additionally, sensory imagery and careful adjectives reveal deep attachment: "silky backs," "snow-white fantails," and the "old familiar piano" create nostalgic pictures. Tender verbs such as "kissed" and "stroked" reinforce warmth. Finally, modal verbs express anxiety about the future: "circumstances might be changed" and the house "might never be my settled home again" show uncertainty and fear. Therefore, the writer’s language powerfully presents the pain of leaving home.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses emotive language like 'sudden anguish' and 'looked so sad' to show the narrator is upset, and the repeated word 'last' emphasises the finality of each goodbye. Descriptive detail like 'snow-white fantails' and the contrast 'still affected to be gay' suggest she loves home but is trying to hide her sadness.

The writer uses emotive language and metaphor to show the narrator’s sadness at saying goodbye. Words like "bitterness" and the phrase "swell my heart" suggest strong pain, while "my eyes... overflowing" shows she is close to tears. She "affected to be gay", so she pretends to be happy, which makes the reader feel sympathy.

Furthermore, the repetition of "last" in "last ramble", "last walk", and "last tune" makes the finality clear. The list of memories with Mary and the pigeons shows how attached she is to home. Adjectives like "silky" and "snow-white" create gentle imagery.

Additionally, long sentences with dashes and semi-colons build a sense of everything happening at once, so the goodbye feels overwhelming. The idea that the house might "never be my settled home again" shows fear and uncertainty about the future. Overall, this shows a painful but loving goodbye.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses emotive words like bitterness, sudden anguish, and sad to show she is upset about leaving, and repeats last (e.g., last ramble, last tune) to emphasise it is goodbye. The image eyes from overflowing suggests tears, and the repeated I had in long, list-like sentences shows there are many things she will miss.

The writer uses emotive language to show her sadness about leaving home. Words like “bitterness” and “anguish” show strong feelings, and “my eyes from overflowing” suggests tears. Moreover, the repetition of “last” and “I had” shows everything is ending and makes the goodbye feel final. Furthermore, the list of small actions, like feeding “pet pigeons” and kissing “snow-white fantails”, shows love for home. Additionally, the long sentences with dashes and colons create pauses, which shows she is thinking and upset.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Juxtaposed emotions show a conflicted farewell; pain intrudes even on tender tasks (bitterness mingling)
• Metaphor makes grief visceral, as if emotion physically overwhelms her (swell my heart)
• Intensifiers around others’ kindness amplify pathos and her struggle to hold back tears (so very kindly)
• Contrast between outward performance and inner sorrow reveals self-control masking distress (affected to be gay)
• Anaphoric repetition foregrounds finality, each activity framed as an ending (my last ramble)
• Cumulative listing with repeated openings slows pace into a lingering leave-taking (I had)
• Tender tactile imagery with pets underscores attachment, deepening the sense of loss (silky backs)
• Colour imagery idealises cherished creatures, suggesting purity and precious memory (snow-white fantails)
• Temporal markers build imminence and inevitability of parting, sharpening the ache (on the morrow)
• Modal uncertainty voices fear of permanent change and displacement (might never be)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how yearning deepens 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: A Level 4 response would track the whole-text chronology to show how the cumulative listing and repetition of 'last' rituals ('last ramble', 'last walk', 'last tune') structure a rising emotional arc from 'bitterness' to the release of 'burst into a flood of tears', with the brief 'renewal of hope and spirits' as a tonal pivot rather than relief. It would also analyse perspective and setting shifts—the backward glance to the 'village spire' under a 'sickly ray' and the restrained close ('I carefully avoided another glance')—as a motif of diminishing light and sight that deepens yearning.

One way in which the writer structures yearning is through a cumulative sequence of “last” rituals before departure. The anaphoric pattern—“my last ramble… my last walk… my last song to papa”—and the piling of subordinate clauses slow the pace, so we linger over each farewell. Temporal sequencing turns present acts into anticipated absence; the proleptic thought that the house “might never be my settled home again” reframes ordinary gestures as already lost. Sustained first-person focalisation keeps us in her tender self-scrutiny, making the longing intimate and continuous.

In addition, a morning volte-face alters tone and rhythm. The lingering night yields to brisk, asyndetic listing—“rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast”—which accelerates departure. Yet the writer delays the emotional crest: “and then, but not till then, burst into a flood of tears” withholds release until motion forces separation. The inserted dialogue with Smith acts as a structural lull; its clipped banalities contrast with her repeated prayers (at the bedside and again for a “blessing” as she looks back), exposing the ache beneath routine.

A further structural feature is the shift from intimate interiors to an emblematic landscape, guided by repeated backward glances. The gaze moves from the doorway to “the village spire” in a micro-to-macro zoom, while pathetic fallacy—“a slanting beam of sunshine… but a sickly ray”—figures fragile hope. The spatial trajectory—descending then “toiling up”—mirrors parting’s pull. Ending with “I carefully avoided another glance” as the light “was departing,” the writer withholds visual closure; by closing on retreating light and averted sight, yearning deepens and remains unresolved.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would identify that the writer structures a sequence of farewells, using repetition of last (e.g., my last ramble with Mary, played my last tune) and time shifts from the last night at home approached to But the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits, so yearning briefly eases before burst into a flood of tears at departure. It would also note repeated backward glances (I looked back, I looked back again) and the closing image of a sickly ray departing, as she carefully avoided another glance, to show how moving away deepens her longing.

One way the writer structures yearning is through cumulative listing and anaphora at the start. The first-person narrator catalogues a sequence of ‘lasts’ — ‘my last ramble,’ ‘fed… for the last time,’ ‘played my last tune’ — in long, flowing sentences. This slows pace and keeps the focus on small domestic rituals (pigeons, piano, kitten), foregrounding attachments and making her longing feel lingering and tender.

In addition, temporal shift and contrast change tone. The narrative moves from the ‘last night at home’ to a morning that ‘brought a renewal of hope,’ briefly lifting mood before the threshold moment when she ‘drew my veil… and then… burst into a flood of tears.’ This delayed release positions the peak of longing at departure, while the clipped dialogue (‘Yes.’ ‘Perhaps it will.’) quickens pace yet exposes inner silence.

A further structural choice is the repeated act of looking back, shifting focus from the journey to home. She sees her family ‘waving,’ then the ‘village spire’ in a ‘slanting beam.’ This visual motif, with pathetic fallacy as the light departs, ends on avoidance — she ‘carefully avoided another glance’ — so by the close the yearning intensifies and remains unresolved.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer structures a countdown to leaving by listing memories with repeated 'last' and moving from night to a brief 'renewal of hope and spirits' in the morning that quickly becomes 'burst into a flood of tears'. It ends with looking back at the 'village spire', admitting 'I could see them no more', and choosing to 'carefully avoided another glance' as 'the sunshine was departing', showing the yearning deepens.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create yearning is in the opening. The narrator uses repetition and a list of “last” actions (“last ramble,” “last tune,” “last song”). This opening pattern, told in first person, builds a gentle pace and shows she is already missing everything.

In addition, in the middle the focus moves into the bedroom scene. The mood shifts from “gay” to quiet tears and prayer, and the sentence about “creeping more closely together” slows the pace. This close-up moment deepens the yearning because she does not want to part from Mary.

A further structural feature is the ending’s change of setting to the journey. Brief dialogue with Smith breaks the emotion, then the focus returns to looking back at home (“village spire”) before she turns away as the “sunshine was departing”. Ending on that image leaves the longing unresolved and stronger.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer moves from the night of goodbyes to the morning journey, repeating ‘last’ (like ‘last ramble’ and ‘last song’) to build a simple sense of yearning. Even when ‘the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits’, by the end she ‘burst into a flood of tears’ and ‘looked back’ at the ‘village spire’ as ‘the sunshine was departing’, which shows the yearning getting stronger.

One way the writer structures the text to show yearning is at the beginning with a list of “last” things. The repetition of “last” and listing makes us feel her attachment to home.

In addition, the text goes in time order from night to morning, with a change in mood. She “affected to be gay” but later “burst into a flood of tears”, which shows yearning growing.

A further structural feature is the focus moving to the journey: brief dialogue, then “looked back”, and at the ending she “avoided another glance”. This ending focus leaves a strong feeling of longing.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening juxtaposes completed preparations with a surge of feeling, immediately framing separation as painful and unresolved (sudden anguish seemed to swell).
• The facade of composure against rising tears creates tension, showing yearning suppressed beneath politeness (I still affected to be gay).
• Anaphoric “lasts” structure a cumulative farewell, each item adding weight to the sense of loss (for the last time).
• Spatial movement from moors, garden, and house into intimate rituals narrows focus, personalising attachment (peck their food from our hands).
• Forward-looking fear that home may be altered intensifies anticipatory longing, as if losing it before leaving (never be my settled home again).
• Slowed bedtime sequence—emptied drawers, prayer, silence—lets emotion crest in a shared but wordless climax (bathed in tears).
• Morning pivot to brief hope contrasts with a withheld outburst, released only in private, sharpening the ache of parting (burst into a flood of tears).
• Recurrent backward looks ritualise leave-taking, then a visual cutoff marks the moment of real separation (see them no more).
• A sparse, mundane exchange with the driver disrupts but cannot dilute the inward pull, foregrounding isolation (Here ended our colloquy).
• Final omen and self-denial of a last look preserve an idealised image of home, revealing intensified yearning (carefully avoided another glance).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 31 to the end.

In this part of the source, when Agnes sees the beam of sunshine on her house, it isn't simply a moment of hope. The writer suggests her hope is very fragile and she is still deeply worried about leaving home.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Agnes's reaction to the beam of sunshine
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest Agnes's fragile sense of hope
• 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: To a great extent, the writer suggests Agnes’s hope is fragile, juxtaposing her reading of the slanting beam of sunshine as a propitious omen with its undermining portrayal as a sickly ray and wandering beam already departing. Her anxious self-protection in hastily turned away and carefully avoided another glance, dreading the gloomy shadow, reveals that any hope is precarious and she remains deeply worried about leaving home.

I largely agree that the sunshine is not uncomplicated hope; the writer frames it as a fragile, momentary consolation within a landscape—and mindset—steeped in apprehension about leaving home. Before the beam appears, Agnes’s composure is already precarious. The asyndetic listing of routines—she 'rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast… mounted the gig'—creates mechanical momentum that postpones, but cannot prevent, the surge of feeling that follows: 'and then, but not till then, burst into a flood of tears.' Her attempt to speak 'as calmly as I could' to Smith is undercut by clipped, monosyllabic replies ('Yes.' 'Perhaps it will.'), while the surrounding pathetic fallacy—'a coldish mornin',' 'a darksome ’un,' rain threatening—externalises her dread. This tonal groundwork primes us to read any hope as tentative rather than secure.

When the 'slanting beam of sunshine' arrives, the writer’s lexis both invites and interrogates optimism. The village spire and 'old grey parsonage' are 'basking'—a verb of warmth—yet the light itself is qualified as 'but a sickly ray.' That pejorative modifier undercuts the conventional symbolic positivity of sunlight, implying weakness and likely failure. Agnes 'hailed the wandering beam as a propitious omen,' a choice of quasi-superstitious diction that reveals her hunger for reassurance; but 'wandering' stresses transience, and the omen’s referent is telling: it is 'to my home,' not to her own journey. The sharp juxtaposition between this lone brightness and the 'sombre shade' engulfing 'the village and surrounding hills' positions hope as an isolated, precarious exception to an otherwise dominant gloom.

The moment’s fragility is confirmed by the scene’s rapid decay. Participles like 'departing' figure the light as already slipping away. Agnes responds with anxious self-management: she 'hastily turned away' and 'carefully avoided another glance, lest I should see it in gloomy shadow.' The paired adverbs convey vigilance and fear; the subordinating 'lest' exposes an anticipatory dread that any second look will annihilate the comfort she has constructed. Structurally, the repetition of perspective shifts—'I looked back… I looked back again'—keeps her gaze tethered to what she is leaving, reinforcing an evaluative impression of reluctance and unresolved worry. Even her piety—'with clasped hands I fervently implored a blessing'—heightens the sense that she is shoring up a fragile faith against an ominous environment.

Overall, I agree: the sunshine moment is genuine but precarious; through contrast, modifiers and pathetic fallacy the writer shows it fading beneath Agnes’s abiding anxiety about leaving.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that while Agnes welcomes the light as a "propitious omen", the contrast of a "sickly ray" against "sombre shade" and its "departing" suggests fragile hope, while her "hastily turned away" and "carefully avoided another glance" to prevent seeing a "gloomy shadow" show continuing anxiety about leaving.

I largely agree with the statement. Although the sunshine offers Agnes a brief glimmer of hope, the writer consistently undermines it to show how fragile it is and how anxious she remains about leaving home.

Before the beam appears, the narrator signals mixed feelings. The morning brings a “renewal of hope and spirits,” yet the structured list of brisk actions (“rose, washed, dressed… swallowed a hasty breakfast”) is abruptly undercut by the pivot “but not till then” before she “burst into a flood of tears.” This structural shift exposes suppressed emotion. Her stilted dialogue with Smith—limited to clipped replies like “Yes” and “Perhaps it will”—against his talk of a “coldish” and “darksome ’un” morning uses pathetic fallacy and contrast to suggest outward composure masking inner worry.

When Agnes notices the sunshine, the imagery is carefully ambivalent. The parsonage is “basking in a slanting beam of sunshine,” a personification that hints at warmth, but the ray is “sickly,” an adjective connoting weakness. She “hailed the wandering beam as a propitious omen,” which shows genuine hope, yet “wandering” implies instability, and needing an “omen” suggests she is seeking reassurance because she is unsure.

The fragility of that hope is made explicit in the verbs that follow: the sunshine is “departing,” and Agnes “hastily turned away” and “carefully avoided another glance, lest” she should see her home “in gloomy shadow.” The structural choice to look back, then refuse to look again, shows she cannot bear the thought of her hope being extinguished. Her “fervently implored” blessing for her family further reveals deep concern; the intensified adverb and verb convey anxious urgency rather than calm optimism.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The writer uses contrast, pathetic fallacy, and carefully chosen adjectives and verbs to present the sunshine as a delicate symbol of hope that is already fading, while Agnes’s restraint, prayer, and avoidance make clear she remains deeply worried about leaving home.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Typically agrees to some extent, pointing to fragile hope in the description 'sickly ray' and in her action 'carefully avoided another glance', though the writer still hints at optimism with 'a propitious omen'. It also notes her ongoing worry about leaving home in 'fervently implored a blessing' and her fear of seeing it in 'gloomy shadow'.

I mostly agree with the statement. Although Agnes feels some hope, the writer shows it is weak and she is still anxious about leaving home.

At the start of this section, the “renewal of hope and spirits” is quickly undercut by emotion. Structurally, the list of rushed actions (“rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast”) suggests nervous haste. She only lets herself cry after she “drew my veil over my face… and then… burst into a flood of tears,” which implies hidden worry. The dialogue also uses pathetic fallacy: Smith calls it a “coldish… darksome” morning, and Agnes answers with short replies (“Yes… Perhaps it will”), showing she is trying to stay calm but is unsettled.

When she sees the beam, the writer uses light and dark imagery and contrast. The parsonage is in a “slanting beam of sunshine,” but it is “but a sickly ray” while the rest is in “sombre shade.” The adjective “sickly” makes the hope seem weak. She calls it a “wandering beam,” which personifies the light and suggests it won’t stay. Although she “hailed” it as a “propitious omen,” the sunshine is “departing” almost at once. Structurally, she “hastily turned away” and “carefully avoided another glance… lest I should see it in gloomy shadow,” showing she fears her hope will vanish. Her “clasped hands” and “fervently implored a blessing” also reveal deep worry about leaving her family.

Overall, I agree that this is not simple hope: the writer’s use of contrast, adjectives and symbolism of light shows a brief, fragile hope overshadowed by Agnes’s anxiety.

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 Agnes’s hope is fragile and she is still worried, pointing to basic details like she burst into a flood of tears, the sunshine is but a sickly ray, and she carefully avoided another glance at the gloomy shadow.

I mostly agree with the statement. When Agnes sees the sunshine, it does give her hope, but it feels weak and shaky. The writer shows this with the adjective “sickly ray.” Even though she calls it a “propitious omen,” the light is only a “slanting beam” and the hills are in “sombre shade.” This contrast makes the hope seem small. The image of a “wandering beam” also suggests it might not last.

At the same time, Agnes is still very worried about leaving home. Before and after the sunlight, she is emotional: she “burst into a flood of tears,” which shows her anxiety. She “clasped hands” and “fervently implored a blessing,” so she is desperate and praying. Then she “hastily turned away” and “carefully avoided another glance,” in case she saw the house in “gloomy shadow.” This behaviour shows fear that the hope will go and that she cannot face it. The weather words like “coldish,” “darksome,” and talk of rain are pathetic fallacy to match her mood.

Overall, I agree that the light is not simply happy. It gives brief hope, but it is fragile, and Agnes is still deeply worried about leaving home.

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:

• Pathetic fallacy via bleak weather and dialect establishes a gloomy backdrop that undermines simple optimism (a darksome ’un)
• The persona’s self-control is strained; her restrained replies and self-veiling suggest suppressed anxiety rather than confidence (as calmly as I could)
• Sudden emotional collapse after setting off reveals unresolved fear, challenging the idea of steady hope (a flood of tears)
• Lexical choice minimises the light’s strength, making the hope feel delicate and easily extinguished (a sickly ray)
• She interprets the light as a sign, implying she needs external reassurance to sustain hope (propitious omen)
• Prayerful posture and appeals emphasize dependence and vulnerability, not certainty (implored a blessing)
• Structural contrast between stated optimism and surrounding darkness sharpens the sense of precarious hope (sombre shade)
• The adverb signals anxious urgency to protect herself from disappointment as the light fades (hastily turned away)
• Deliberate avoidance shows fragile hope that cannot withstand contradiction from reality (avoided another glance)
• The selective illumination of spire and parsonage suggests a fleeting, isolated comfort amid broader gloom (slanting beam of sunshine)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

For a local sports club’s awards evening, you will read a short creative piece.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a moment of focus high above a swimming pool from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about facing up to a big challenge.

(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 air up here is thinner, or it pretends to be: light and sound drain away until only the stubborn tick of your pulse remains. The rafters hold their breath. Sodium lamps pool honeyed circles on the ceiling; the water throws them back as shivers of sequinned light that climb the tiles and fade. Chlorine hangs in the lungs—clean, metallic—and the whole building seems to pause, as if the pool itself were listening.

Below, the surface is a polished disc of blue glass, a deliberate stillness corrugated only by the faintest persuasion of the filtration system. Lane ropes lie like stitched threads; a banner of triangular flags trembles over the deep end, a hesitant mouthful of bunting. The white starting blocks wait, squared and grave. Beyond them, the scoreboard’s red numerals burn insect-bright, counting something you refuse to let count you. People become silhouettes on the far benches—blurred shoulders, a stray cough, then silence again; even the whistle that ruled the warm-up seems fictional now, a story told and over.

Your toes curl into the stippled grain of the platform, each blister of rubber a constellation you can read with your skin. The board itself hums—so slight, a cat’s purr, a memory of held energy—as if it has its own pulse, syncing to yours by degrees. Hands settle at your sides (don’t fidget), shoulder blades slip down the back; the body recognises the order and arranges itself. Inhale to four, hold, exhale to three; repeat. Numbers anchor you when words get in the way. What else exists up here but air and intention? The coach’s voice arrives from last Tuesday’s lane-end, disembodied and precise: see the line, stack the shape, thread the entry. Don’t chase the board—let it come.

Light slicks the length of your forearms. A drop escapes the corner of one elbow and falls, slow as thought, breaking the gloss below into a brief, apologetic circle, then gone. The smell intensifies; the hush thickens; time becomes elastic. It is not that you don’t hear the world; you hear it too well: the low thrum of the building, the soft fret of your own breath, the quiet grind of your back teeth. Stillness isn’t nothing; it is a kind of bright pressure, fragile as spun sugar, and you hold it the way you’d hold an egg—carefully, but not afraid to break it.

One step. The board answers—up and down, up and down, a measured conversation, a small amplitude gathering itself. The edge of the pool lifts, then recedes, as if the blue were breathing in slow coordination with your calves. Another breath. Knees soften. The world narrows to the hinge of your ankles, the silver line you’ve drawn behind your sternum, the exact sting of air along your shins. One more thought slips its leash—ridiculous, necessary—be clean. Be exact.

Then, a held moment inside a moment: the last quiet before the spring, the coin of silence balanced on its rim; and in that precise, razor-edged pause, you are balanced too—between gravity and grace, between fear and the bright, uncomplicated plunge.

Option B:

Morning. The time courage borrows light; corridors smelling faintly of polish and yesterday’s rain; chairs marshalled into obedient rows as if awaiting inspection. Dust idled in a slant of sun that cut across the stage; the varnished floor seemed to hold its breath; the microphone, thin as a reed, waited. A day that would not wait.

Backstage, Asha shuffled her cue cards once more—then once more again—until their corners went soft as petals. Her hands were not hands but metronomes. Ink had bled where last night’s practice had become a kind of storm, a patient storm that rinsed her sentences until they shone. She inhaled carefully (in for four, hold for seven, out for eight); the breath snagged anyway. Somewhere in the hall a door clicked. Somewhere nearer, her heart replied.

She had promised herself she would do this. Not because the trophy gleamed with a bragging shine—though it did, perched on its pedestal like a smug bird—but because she was tired of being the person who tinged each ambition with an apology. Year Seven had been a palimpsest of sudden silences: a presentation; a laugh from row three; a word that caught and frayed like wool on a nail. Not today. Not again. Not anymore.

“Please welcome—” The master of ceremonies pronounced her name with a careful kindness that made it heavier. A ripple—a small, polite, well-behaved ripple—rolled through the hall and settled into a hush. Light, white and clean as bone, warmed the curtain. Her mouth dried absurdly fast, as if someone had salted the air. She tasted metal.

Nevertheless, she stepped. The boards gave a creak, the sort of old, companionable creak that suggested this stage had seen worse, and better. Shoes whispered. Ten paces; an incalculable ocean. The silence was not empty; it had texture—soft, expectant, almost generous. Her fingers found the softened cards. Her grandmother’s voice materialised like a scarf around her throat: Your voice is not a trick, beta; it is a bridge. Walk across it.

The microphone loomed, nettle-prickly and exacting. Asha aligned her papers, then did not look at them. Instead, she let her gaze climb the hall: the tessellated rows of faces; the gold-edged clock above the double doors ticking with minuscule arrogance; the strip of daylight under the far exit. She searched for an anchor—found, at the very back, a teacher’s tilted nod, a friend’s lopsided grin.

“Good morning—” The word arrived in two parts, a staccato she felt from tongue to toes. A few heads lifted. She steadied. That familiar flutter rose, feral as a trapped sparrow; she named it, then loosened her grip. This fear is a visitor; I will be hospitable, but not obedient.

However long this took would be the right length. However imperfect, this voice would be hers. She drew a breath, proper and deep, and allowed the next sentence to form—not as something to survive, but as something to give.

The hall leaned closer.

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

Option A:

The board thins to a blade under my feet; below it, the pool waits, a pane of polished blue glass. The ceiling lamps scatter coins of light that spin and settle on the tiles; lane ropes are idle commas, red-white-blue, punctuating the stillness. Chlorine nips the back of my throat, clean and chemical, a smell that is almost metallic. Air-conditioning sighs—cool, dry, insistent—and it raises a stipple of chill along my forearms. Far below a lifeguard turns a page; paper whispers; a door thuds somewhere beyond the gallery. Up here, it is narrow and suspended and impossibly clear.

Focus, I tell myself, and the word is not a thought but a position—weight through the balls of my feet, toes curled into the abrasive grit. The board is silent until I breathe; it gives the faintest tremor when I shift. In for four, hold for two, out for six; in, and out, in, and out, until the stray noise in my head drains away. My damp shammy hangs from the rail, heavy as rope. Coach’s sentences compress to a single imperative: commit. My heart is loud—too loud—like a drum that somebody forgot to muffle.

Vision tightens. The world beyond the railing blurs into a soft mural of faces and metal; the only sharp thing is the black cross tiled on the pool floor, a target pressed beneath glass. Light rifles through the water and back again, as if the surface is breathing. The concrete pillar to my left hums with a machine I cannot see; above, red digits blink their silent metronome. I flex; the board replies, a whispering creak. It feels almost sentient. The height is not a drop but a space to be solved; I measure it with breath and with patience.

Arms float forward, then sweep—one, two—shoulders loose, neck long. My knees soften. The edge is a suggestion more than a line and yet it holds everything together: timing, angle, faith. For a heartbeat I am a bracket, containing quiet. What do you hold, at the lip of air, that makes the world settle into its place? Not fear. Not all those winter mornings. Only a thread of intent, thin and tensile. I gather it. Exhale. The board bows; the pool steadies; the noise falls away, and the centre of me sharpens to a single, clean point.

Option B:

Monday. The assembly hall held its breath. Rows of plastic blue chairs sat in strict regiments, the varnished floor reflecting a spill of sun; dust motes drifted like lazy snow in the high light. At the front, the microphone waited—slender, uncompromising—its cable a black vein running into the wings. A cough burst and receded. On the edge of the stage, I pressed my thumb into the corner of my cue cards until a pale crescent bloomed in my skin, until the card stopped quivering or my hand did.

All week I had practised: the living room became a theatre; my little brother, a restless audience; the mantel clock, my metronome. I walked while I spoke and projected into the mirror; I learned where to breathe so the words would sit, calm, on my tongue. But now my mouth felt dry as chalk. My name—a small, familiar word—thickened in my throat. I have always tried to dodge the tricky sounds, to skim around them as if skirting puddles; today I had promised myself I would step straight through.

Last year I left something unfinished. I can still smell the sour corridor outside the practice room, hear the piano’s opening bars slide away as I walked, telling myself I wasn’t running and leaving anyway. I let the fear grow a spine and walk me home. Everyone was kind about it—“There will be other chances,” they said—but the sentence lodged like grit. This speech was my chance: not to be perfect, just to stand still when the shaking started.

The headteacher’s hand lifted and the hall settled into a hush that felt almost solid. I stepped forward and the microphone breathed a small, unhelpful squeal. There were two choices: step up to the lectern, or become smaller than the fear. I counted (in fours, like Dad taught me for riding a bike), steady, deliberate. Butterflies battered at my ribs. “Good morning,” I said—too quietly—then again. The second time my voice found a truer pitch. I let the first sentence unfold, word after word, like a bridge building itself in the air, and for the first time the space between me and the hall felt crossable.

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

Option A:

Up here, the air is cooler and thin; quiet has weight. The pool below is a neat rectangle of blue, cut by white tiles and the dark ladders that climb into it. The smell of chlorine rises like a pale ghost. The tiles are a grid, tiny squares the colour of milk and sky; lane ropes flicker with candy red and white. Rafters cross above like ribs and lights hum with insect patience. A droplet ticks off the end of the board, again, a metronome above the hush. Somewhere a child laughs, then the sound slides away and silence closes over it.

My toes spread, gripping the rough, sandpaper skin of the board, its grit biting. Chalk dust powders my knuckles. I roll my shoulders until they sit straight; breath in, breath out, breath in—counting not seconds but steadiness. My heartbeat drums into the soles of my feet; the board remembers each vibration.

Meanwhile, below, lifeguards in red make islands at the corners; one twirls his whistle, a bright coin. The filter hum threads the cavern with a single note. The surface is so smooth it looks solid, yet the faintest draft gives it shivers. I blink, the lights soften to halos and then steady.

Coach says: see your line. There is no line, of course, just the dark stripe stitched into the floor, but I fix on it anyway, like a needle finding a seam. Hips tight; arms close. I let the chatter of the crowd dissolve—what they want is not what I need. I listen to my breath. I listen to the hum. The space contracts until it is only me and blue.

I rock forward once, twice; the board answers with a spring that feels alive. Small movements, small choices. Toes hang, heels float, the edge presses a thin smile into my skin. Time stretches, and the height becomes not fear but room. When I finally move it will be simple. It will be clean. For now I hold the moment by its edges, careful as paper, and stare at the stripe that waits, patient, at the centre of the pool.

Option B:

Saturday. The pool smelt of coins and cut lemons; under the strip-lights the blue water shivered like glass. Above it, the diving platform held itself like a white cliff, calm, patient, a little cruel. Somewhere a whistle snapped. My name fluttered from the loudspeaker, and then the space inside my chest seemed larger than the room.

Breathe in, breathe out. The rubber soles of my feet squeaked as I stepped onto the metal ladder. It was gouged with scratches and tiny initials, a private history of other hands, other hearts. Each rung was slick, the rails cool, and my knuckles whitened around them as if they could anchor me to reason. Upward. The smell of chlorine thinned with height; voices tangled in the rafters and rose to meet me like startled birds. Halfway, I made the mistake of looking down. The pool shrank, a postage stamp, an unreal square of blue packed into tiles.

I could have climbed back down. No one would laugh — well, perhaps some would, but most wouldn’t. However, I hadn’t come here to be most people. Last night, I’d promised my brother that I would jump. He’d nodded as if I were describing the weather, then asked whether the water felt hard when you hit it (I said no, not wanting to plant fear in him). At thirteen, I was tired of leaning against walls while other people made choices. So I told myself this was a line I could step across; a thin, invisible thread between then and what comes next.

At the top, the world widened. The rafts and lanes, the bright floats, the clock face with its red hand that scythed the minute — all of it seemed both near and very far, like scenery painted on a sheet. Wind, slight but insistent, brushed my wet arms. My toes curled over the pale concrete lip. Below, the water waited without malice. My thoughts crowded: what if I landed wrong; what if my ears roared and I came up spluttering, what if I didn’t do it at all? My heart didn’t beat so much as blur.

Jump.

Silence gathered. I tasted metal on my tongue and something like courage — not loud, not a shout, but a steady note. Breathe in, breathe out. Then, slowly, I loosened my grip on the rail and leaned my weight forward, letting the edge of the world become, simply, the next step.

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

Option A:

The pool is a bright strip of blue far below me, a glassy rectangle framed by white tiles and a halo of fluorescent light. From up here, the water looks soft, almost kind, as if it is a bed someone has smoothed with flat hands. It does not move; it waits. The ceiling beams stretch like ribs overhead, carrying the hum of vents. The board is narrow beneath me, a pale tongue, steady and silent.

My toes curl around the rough grit; tiny granules bite into my skin and bring me back to the exact place I am in. Calves tighten. My heart taps, not wild, but insistent, like a small drum in a room next door. Chlorine sharpens the air; it stings the inside of my nose. I roll my shoulders and straighten, spine stacking piece by piece. This is the centre of everything: the small strip between edge and air, the pause that holds more than noise.

I count because counting makes the world simpler. One—breathe. Two—lock the hips. Three—chin still. The crowd is there but not there; they blur into patches of shirts and a long, soft rustle. Somewhere, a whistle squeaks and then is quiet. Above the water, the lane ropes draw red and white lines; the tiles wink with tiny square faces. I fix my gaze on the far wall and imagine a thread pulled tight from me to it.

I let stray thoughts drop like coins to the bottom; I keep the smooth line I have practised, the rhythm, the discipline. The board shivers when I shift my weight; it answers with a shallow, elastic sound. Up here, the air feels thinner—almost metallic. I rock once. I rock again; the blue below seems to thicken. For a heartbeat, everything holds itself very still, and focus is a quiet, shining point.

Option B:

Autumn. The time of crisp air; orange leaves blown into corners; breath turning to ghostly fog. The town hall wore banners like scarves, bright and eager, while my throat felt as dry as chalk. In the second row a woman coughed; on the stage the microphone glowed like a small moon.

As the audience murmured, a soft sea, I counted my cards for the tenth time. Each white rectangle looked thin, like they had been washed by my nervous palms. “You can do this,” I whispered, hardly a sound at all. They sounded pretend, light and weak, but stayed close, a fragile friend.

I walked to the wings and the floorboards creaked, a complaint under my shoes. The curtain sighed. The smell of dust and polish floated up; the air tasted stale and sweet from the popcorn outside. Someone announced my name—too slow, too careful—and the syllables stretched, like they didn’t want to leave their mouth. My stomach tightened; my heart answered with a fast drum that nobody else could hear.

For a second I thought about stepping back, just one step, hiding between the ropes and shadows. One step is small; one step is the beginning of running. But I had promised. I had told Mum, my brother, my teacher. I had written the title in thick ink: How to build courage when your hands shake.

I took one breath, then another—counted four in, four out. The light was too bright and it made the audience a dark sea with glittering eyes. I stepped forward.

Good evening, I said, but at first it didn’t feel like my voice. It wobbled, a thin wire. I held the lectern, not too tight, and I looked up again.

The challenge didn’t move out of my way; I moved into it.

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

Option A:

High above the water, I stand on the rough board, toes curled on the edge. Fluorescent lights hum overhead; the air tastes of chlorine, bright and sharp, like a polished coin. Below, the pool is a strict rectangle, a blue map with a single black road leading to its centre. Lane ropes sit like quiet borders. The surface holds itself still, as if it is waiting for the first word.

The board is grainy under my feet. It flexes slightly when I shift, a tiny tremor that runs up my legs and into my chest. Somewhere behind the glass, voices murmur; they rise and fall, and then they fade. I fix my eyes on one tile, one square of darker blue. Everything else blurs. My plan is simple: breathe, count, commit. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in again. The sound of a single drip echoes, a delicate tick, and the roof beams stretch above like ribs.

Below me, the water glitters like a sheet of glass, but it is not flat; light is moving inside it. The pool looks close and far at the same time—like something in a mirror. My heartbeat turns into a slow drum. I feel the air on my arms, cool and thin. The lights blink without caring. The pool stares back, an open eye.

Now I lean forward. Now the world narrows to the black line; everything else slips to the edges. No jokes, no cheers—only the drop and the breath I hold. Focus is a small circle, held between my hands. I step into it.

Option B:

Monday. The school hall smelt of polish and old certificates. The benches were lined up like soldiers; the stage waited as if it knew. I stood at the back and rubbed my hands on my trousers. Today I had to speak.

All weekend I'd practised. In the mirror, in the kitchen, whispering on the bus. My cue cards had bent corners and a coffee ring. My opening line, 'Good morning everyone,' kept wobbling in my mouth like a loose tooth. I could picture the microphone - a small black eye - staring me down. It wasn't just words; it was the whole year listening, the headteacher, and my mum in the crowd. I had a choice: run or speak.

The head's voice crackled from the speakers and called my name. A tremor went through my legs. The path up the aisle seemed longer than on any other day, each step sticky. Trainers squeaked. What if I messed up? I'd been the quiet one for years, the person who sat by the window and drew on the edge of my planner; this was my chance to be more.

I reached the lectern; the wood was smooth and cool. The microphone was closer than I thought. I looked at my notes, and out at all the faces - teachers faces, friends, people I didn't even know. Silence. My heart beat like a drum, but it didn't drown me. 'Good morning,' I said. My voice shook, then settled. I didn't run. I breathed, and I began.

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

Option A:

The board hums under my feet; a tight spring holding me up. Under my toes the rough grip scratches. Far below, the pool is a neat blue rectangle, smooth like glass but moving. While I look down, the smell of chlorine rises, sharp and clean. The lights above glare on the water, long white lines sliding across it. People around the edge look small, their voices thin and echoing up to me.

Now I try to focus. I breathe in, I breathe out, again and again. The coach in my head: point your toes, keep your head still. My heart taps in my throat. The air is cooler up here; it brushes my arms and crawls over my neck. The board creaks. I curl my toes and feel the tiny ridges. My reflection shivers on the surface below, then settles, then shivers again.

Then one small bounce. Knees bend; the world dips. Time stretches—like plastic. Not the noise, not the height, not the wet tiles. Only this: breath, balance, blue. I hold myself in that second and the pool holds still with me, as if it is waiting. I lean forward, a little, and I wait, I wait, before the jump comes.

Option B:

It was only a school assembly, but to me it looked like a mountain. The hall smelled of timber and polish; the floor gleamed like glass. In my chest a drum was beating too loud, my heart would not listen. Today I was meant to stand on the stage and tell a story about my grandad. My hands trembled and the paper shook, words slid off the page like fish. I wanted to run, but the corridor pushed me forward.

Firstly, I checked my tie, then my voice, then my route to the steps. It was a plan. People whispered, a hundred shoes squeaked, a microphone stood waiting like an eye. Ms Lane said, “You’ll be great,” and I nodded even though I wasn’t sure. What if I forget? What if I freeze? I took one breath—another—trying to fill my ribs with courage.

Then the music stopped and the hall settled. My name was called: my feet moved. One step... another. The lights were brighter than I thought; the microphone seemed closer. I gripped the paper. I can do this, I told myself, again and again. My mouth felt dry, but I opened it anyway and the first word finally came.

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

Option A:

High above the pool, I stand on the board. My toes curl on the edge. The pool is blue like glass and it shines.

I can smell the strong chlorine, it is sharp in my nose. People are below like dots.

I breathe in. I breathe out. In and out, in and out, again and again.

The air touches my arms and it feels cold. My heart is loud like a drum. The water waits for me. It is quiet, but also not quiet because there is echo.

I count. Three, two, one, I dont go.

I focus on one tile far away. A white square. It holds me still. The board shakes a little and I stand still, I am a small tree.

I look down. The blue eye looks back.

I hold my breath alot. Then I move, only a little.

Option B:

Morning. Cold. My breath is white in the blue air. Today is the day. The big challenge. I have to talk to the whole year.

My hands shake. My tie is too tight and my shoes rub. My heart is like a drum, dum dum, dum. People laugh in the corridor like water, it goes past me and I want to hide.

Last time I ran away, I said I was ill and I went home. Today - no more hiding!

In the hall the floor squeeks under my feet. The lights feel hot; the air smells dusty. Miss says, you practiced, it will be fine. I nod but I dont feel fine, not really, my mouth is dry and my notes shake.

I stand there. One breath. Another. One thing left: speak. I look at the red chairs, at the door incase I run becuase I might.

They say my name.

I open my mouth

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

Option A:

High above the pool I stand on the board. The tiles look small and the water is a big blue square. My toes cling, the board shakes a bit and it makes a dull sound. I hear splash and shout, then it goes quiet in my head, like cotton. The air smell like chlorine and cold. I look down and I try to breath steady, in, out, in, out. Dont look at the crowd I think. A whistle peeps, or maybe its just the wind. I remember chips from the cafe before. I bend my knees, I jump, the whole place is far.

Option B:

Morning. Cold air on my face and my hands feel stiff. The hill is big, like a wall. I have to run up it today, coach says. My legs feel wobbly like jelly. I want to go home, I want to hide. Mum says I can do it but I don't beleive it. The bus was late and my laces are wrong, everything is wrong today. I line up - shoes on mud. My heart goes bang bang bang. The whistle might blow any second, I breath hard. Last week my fish died and I cried in the bath. I ain't ready, but I step.