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 According to the narrator, where do the two figures meet?: In the centre of the arena – 1 mark
• 1.2 How did the man and the woman enter the earth-work?: the man by the south path, the woman by the great north gap – 1 mark
• 1.3 What did the man discern?: a female figure – 1 mark
• 1.4 Where did the man and the woman meet?: in the middle of the arena – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 10 of the source:

6 Henchard, who supported her in his arms. “I don’t drink,” he said in a low, halting, apologetic voice. “You hear, Susan?—I don’t drink now—I haven’t since that night.” Those were his first words.

How does the writer use language here to show Henchard’s feelings and the mood of the meeting? 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 show how the tender action supported her in his arms juxtaposes with the contrite triad low, halting, apologetic to expose Henchard’s shame and protectiveness, and how the narratorial summation Those were his first words. elevates the confession’s gravity. It would also analyse the interrogative direct address You hear, Susan?, the repetition and caesural dashes in I don’t drink now—I haven’t since that night., whose temporal markers imply sustained repentance and an allusive shared trauma, creating a tense, penitent mood.

The writer uses a tricolon of adjectives to characterise Henchard’s voice. The description “in a low, halting, apologetic voice” compresses his emotional state into tone. The asyndetic tricolon layers qualities: “low” registers humility and secrecy, “halting” suggests fractured control, and “apologetic” explicitly encodes remorse. This tonal palette establishes a subdued, penitential mood for the meeting.

Furthermore, syntax and punctuation convey his urgency and anxiety. The repeated declaration “I don’t drink” operates as anaphora, a refrain that foregrounds reform as his foremost concern. The em dashes in “You hear, Susan?—I don’t drink now—I haven’t since that night” mark pauses and self-repair, mimicking hesitant speech and escalating emphasis. The deictic, elliptical “that night” alludes to a shared, unspeakable past, darkening the atmosphere with unvoiced guilt, while the temporal adverb “now” sets a stark then/now contrast. The direct address and brief interrogative “You hear, Susan?” read as a plea for acknowledgement, revealing his need for forgiveness.

Additionally, the relative clause “who supported her in his arms” focuses proxemics: his physical support becomes a non-verbal apology, signalling tenderness and responsibility. This gentle gesture tempers the tension with intimacy, suggesting a man attempting reparation.

Moreover, the short sentence “Those were his first words” isolates and magnifies his statement. This declarative acts as narratorial emphasis, underscoring that confession precedes any greeting, and framing the encounter as a moment of contrition and attempted redemption. Therefore, the writer’s choice of lexis, punctuation and sentence form delicately renders Henchard’s shame-struck feelings and the sober, charged mood of the meeting.

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 clearly explain that the adjectives describing his voice—low, halting, apologetic—show shame and nervousness, while the repetition of “I don’t drink”, the broken delivery signalled by —, and the direct address “You hear, Susan?” convey urgency and a need for reassurance. It would also note how the action “supported her in his arms” creates a tender but tense reunion mood, and how the short sentence “Those were his first words.” and the hint “since that night” emphasise the confession’s significance and a troubled past.

The writer uses verb choice and physical detail in “supported her in his arms” to present Henchard as protective and repentant. “Supported” suggests care and responsibility, hinting that he feels guilt and wants to make amends, which creates a gentle, tentative mood to the meeting.

Furthermore, the list of adjectives “low, halting, apologetic” conveys his tone. “Low” implies a subdued voice, matching a sombre atmosphere; “halting” suggests hesitation and anxiety; and “apologetic” directly signals remorse. This careful description builds a clear impression of a man struggling to speak, deepening the awkward, tense mood.

Additionally, the direct speech uses repetition and sentence forms to show urgency. The simple declarative “I don’t drink” is repeated and intensified with “now”, stressing change, while the time reference “since that night” hints at a shameful past, heightening suspense. The dashes break up the line—“You hear, Susan?—I don’t drink now—I haven’t…”—mimicking broken, emotional speech. The interrogative with direct address “You hear, Susan?” shows his need for her acceptance. Finally, the short simple sentence “Those were his first words” foregrounds his pledge, showing sobriety is his priority, and setting a serious, penitent mood for the meeting.

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 point out simple effects: adjectives like "low, halting, apologetic voice" show Henchard feels guilty and nervous, and the repetition of "I don’t drink" with the direct address "You hear, Susan?" suggests he is desperate to reassure her. It might also note that "supported her in his arms" shows care, while the short sentence "Those were his first words" and the pauses marked by dashes create a tense, serious mood.

The writer uses adjectives to show Henchard’s feelings. His “low, halting, apologetic voice” suggests he feels ashamed and nervous, so the meeting seems quiet and serious. Furthermore, the verb “supported her in his arms” shows care, which makes the mood more gentle as he tries to make up for before. The repetition of “I don’t drink… I don’t drink now” and the dashes slow his speech, showing hesitation but also determination to change. Additionally, the question “You hear, Susan?” is direct address, which sounds desperate for her approval and adds tension. Finally, the short sentence “Those were his first words.” highlights how important this is to him and leaves the scene feeling solemn.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might simply note that the adjectives “low, halting, apologetic” show Henchard feels sorry and nervous. It would also spot repetition of “I don’t drink”, saying “Susan”, and the short sentence “Those were his first words.” to suggest a tense, serious mood.

The writer uses adjectives to show Henchard’s feelings. The phrase “low, halting, apologetic voice” suggests he feels ashamed and nervous, making the meeting quiet and serious. Also, the verb “supported” shows care and concern. Moreover, the repetition “I don’t drink… I don’t drink now” shows he is desperate to prove himself, adding tension. The direct address and question “You hear, Susan?” shows urgency and a plea for acceptance. Furthermore, the dashes in “I don’t drink now—I haven’t since that night” show pauses and hesitation. Finally, the short sentence “Those were his first words” makes the moment feel important.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Physical action: the supportive verb and embrace present Henchard as protective and contrite, softening the mood of the meeting (supported her in his arms).
• Adjectival triad describing voice slows the pace and signals shame and remorse, revealing fragile, penitent feelings (low, halting, apologetic).
• Blunt, simple clause foregrounds his defining claim, giving urgency and sincerity to his confession (I don’t drink).
• Repetition of the assertion shows anxiety to be believed and self-reform as his priority, heightening emotional intensity (I don’t drink now).
• Direct address and interrogative create a pleading tone and need for confirmation, adding tension to the encounter (You hear, Susan?).
• Em dashes fracture the line, mirroring hesitancy and emotional strain; the meeting feels halting and uneasy.
• Present perfect with negation marks sustained change and distances him from a painful past, loading the moment with regret (I haven’t since that night).
• Authorial summary as a short, emphatic sentence prioritises this confession, establishing a solemn, confessional mood (Those were his first words).

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 intrigue?

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would track how intrigue is engineered from a clandestine, wordless rendezvous in the "deserted earth-work"—"Neither spoke just at first"—that withholds context, through a drip-feed of Q&A revelations ("since that night", "Why did you keep silent like this?") and a pivot to public stakes ("Mayor of the town"). It would also show how a forward-driving deception is structurally mapped ("I meet you, court you, and marry you", "the secret would be yours and mine only") before the scene closes on an unresolved, risk-tinged exit ("Please let me go alone.") that sustains suspense.

One way the writer structures the passage to create intrigue is through symmetrical staging and delayed revelation. The opening temporal marker “Just before eight” and the covert geography—he enters by the “south path” while “a female figure” creeps in by the “north gap”—engineer a convergent movement that culminates as “They met in the middle of the arena.” This choreographed approach, coupled with silence (“Neither spoke just at first”), suspends information and slows narrative pace, inviting questions about who these figures are and why the secrecy. When speech comes, it withholds specifics—“I don’t drink… since that night”—an oblique allusion that tantalises by implying a buried crisis without disclosing it.

In addition, the writer drip-feeds backstory through analepsis prompted by Henchard’s question, “Why did you keep silent like this?” Susan’s extended turn, saturated with euphemistic nouns (“bargain,” “good faith”), requires the reader to infer the scandal. This controlled release of exposition—alternating Henchard’s urgent interrogatives with Susan’s remorseful justification—modulates tone from tender reconciliation to moral anxiety, deepening intrigue as the past is pieced together in fragments.

A further structural choice is the pivot from confession to proleptic plotting. Henchard’s plan—“that I meet you, court you, and marry you”—projects a future deception, raising stakes by juxtaposing his private shame with his public status as “Mayor.” Sustained focalisation through Henchard (“He felt her bow her head”) aligns us with his strategic urgency while Elizabeth-Jane’s offstage absence functions as a significant omission, keeping the central risk abstract yet ominous. The closing refusal—“Please let me go alone”—preserves secrecy and leaves the scheme unresolved, a restrained cliffhanger that sustains intrigue beyond the extract.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds intrigue by beginning with a secret meeting at the deserted earth-work and delaying explanation as Neither spoke just at first, then drip-feeding backstory through dialogue like I don’t drink now and the belief they were dead and gone. Suspense rises at a turning point when Henchard proposes a covert plan—I meet you, court you, and marry you—to hide our disgrace and keep the secret would be yours and mine only, before a cautious parting (Don’t run any risk! and let me go alone) leaves readers uncertain about what will happen next.

One way in which the writer structures intrigue is through a controlled opening and withholding. A temporal marker, “Just before eight”, and the “deserted earth-work” place us as two figures converge. The woman is only a “female figure” and “Neither spoke”, before the short sentence, “Those were his first words.” This restraint slows the pace and makes the reader ask who they are and why secrecy is needed.

In addition, flashback is drip-fed through dialogue to reveal the past without removing mystery. References to “that night”, being “dead and gone”, and Susan “paid so much for” hint at scandal. The focus then shifts from reunion to problem: Elizabeth-Jane and Henchard’s role as “Mayor”. This contrast between public respectability and a “disgraceful” youth turns the mood anxious and raises the stakes.

A further structural choice is forward reference that foreshadows future conflict. Henchard sets out a scheme—“meet you, court you, and marry you”—mapping next steps and inviting doubt about whether the deception can last. Temporal markers (“a day or two”) and rapid exchanges quicken the pace, but the closing “Please let me go alone” and “run any risk” leave matters unresolved, creating dramatic irony for the reader.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start, the writer creates intrigue by showing a secret meeting Just before eight in a deserted earth-work, and because Neither spoke just at first, we wonder who they are and why they are there. As the scene develops, information is drip-fed through dialogue and questions like Why did you keep silent like this?, then a sudden proposal I have thought of this plan with mentions of our disgrace and the secret would be yours and mine only, leading to repeating our marriage and warnings like Don't run any risk!, which keeps the reader curious about what will happen.

One way the writer structures the text to create intrigue is in the beginning. The scene is a secret meeting in a “deserted” place and “neither spoke”, which makes mystery. Then the first clear line is “I don’t drink,” which surprises us and makes us ask what happened “since that night”.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts to the past through dialogue and time phrases like “If I had known you were living” and talk of “our disgrace”. This backstory is drip-fed, and the steady exchange about Elizabeth-Jane builds tension as we wonder if the girl will find out.

A further structural feature is the ending, which looks forward. Henchard sets out a plan — “I meet you, court you, and marry you” — but the cautious tone (“extreme caution”) and the final line “Please let me go alone” leave an ending, a cliff-hanger that keeps us interested.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start they meet in a secret place, deserted earth-work, and Neither spoke just at first, which makes it mysterious. Then questions and plans build intrigue (Why did you keep silent like this?, I have thought of this plan:, the secret, and needing to act with extreme caution), ending with Please let me go alone so we want to know what happens next.

One way the writer has structured the text to create intrigue is the opening. They arrive from different paths to a secret place and 'neither spoke'. Short sentences like 'Those were his first words' make us wonder.

In addition, the focus is on dialogue. The writer gives hints like 'that night' and 'the bargain'. Questions such as 'Why did you keep silent?' keep the reader curious.

A further feature is the ending. After planning a pretend marriage, the final line, 'Please let me go alone,' feels like a cliff-hanger, so we want to read on.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• In medias res clandestine meeting → immediate intrigue by dropping us into a secret rendezvous without prior context (deserted earth-work)
• Mirrored approach from opposite entrances → converging movements build anticipation about the encounter and its purpose (met in the middle)
• Paused, speechless beat → deliberate delay of information heightens tension and curiosity (Neither spoke just at first)
• Cryptic confession with withheld cause → vague reference to past wrongdoing invites questions the text will not yet answer (since that night)
• Incremental backstory via Q&A dialogue → stepwise revelation sustains curiosity about motives and history (Why did you keep silent)
• Loaded transactional language about a “bargain” → moral ambiguity deepens mystery around their past choices (paid so much)
• Introduction of the child as a secret → new complication raises stakes and suspense over concealment (She cannot be told all)
• Mid-scene status reveal → higher public profile intensifies the risk of exposure and intrigue (Mayor of the town)
• Problem-to-plan structural pivot → outlining a staged courtship teases future deception and its plausibility (I meet you, court you)
• Cautious, separate departure → unresolved risk at the close preserves tension and forward momentum (Please let me go alone)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 41 to the end.

In this part of the source, Henchard takes control of the situation and seems like he is trying to help Susan. The writer suggests that his main concern is actually his own reputation and he is being selfish.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Henchard's true motivations
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray his focus on reputation
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree that Henchard’s priority is his own reputation, showing how the writer foregrounds status and secrecy via his boast of "Mayor of the town" and "churchwarden", anxious references to "our disgrace" and a need to "act with extreme caution", and his stage-managed plan to "court you, and marry you" so his "shady, headstrong, disgraceful life" remains concealed, reinforced by controlling imperatives like "You must start genteel" and "Look to me for money". It would also acknowledge complexity by noting the pull of "my own only child" is undermined by the oxymoronic "kindly severity", which reveals help as a mask for self-interest.

I largely agree with the statement. Henchard certainly commandeers the conversation and packages his intervention as protective, yet Hardy’s presentation of his diction and the structure of his plan foregrounds a preoccupation with status and concealment, implying a fundamentally self-serving motive.

From the outset, Henchard adopts an authoritative, managerial tone: “we must talk of a plan.” The modal auxiliary “must” and the inclusive “we” appear collaborative, but he quickly shifts to “I” control—“I have thought of this plan”—exposing the illusion of shared agency. His paratactic listing of offices—“I am Mayor of the town, and churchwarden, and I don’t know what all?”—functions as a status display; the breezy aside “I don’t know what all?” reads like a humblebrag. Crucially, the syntax foregrounds position before principle: “These things, as well as the dread of the girl discovering our disgrace, makes it necessary to act with extreme caution.” By placing “These things” (his titles) first, and by using the impersonal construction “makes it necessary,” he rationalises caution as social necessity rather than personal choice, hinting that reputation leads his thinking.

His “plan” is meticulously staged: “you and Elizabeth take a cottage… that I meet you, court you, and marry you.” The tricolon of performative verbs turns real lives into a public script. Calling it “so natural and easy… half done in thinking o’t” suggests hubristic confidence in engineering appearances. The semantic field of secrecy dominates: “my shady, headstrong, disgraceful life… unopened”; “the secret would be yours and mine only.” That prioritised clause—sealing his past—precedes the softer payoff that he “should have the pleasure of seeing my own only child,” implying concealment is the first goal, domestic reunion the secondary reward.

Hardy also shades Henchard’s manner as paternalistic. The oxymoronic tag “with kindly severity,” followed by “said Henchard gently,” veneer his commands with warmth. Yet the exclamative prohibition “No, no, Susan; you are not to go—you mistake me!” and the directive “you must start genteel” betray the imperative mood controlling her movements and even her class performance. His insistence on “lodgings… in High Street” despite the cost elevates façade over comfort, while “Look to me for money” cements dependence. The pseudo-choice—“Think over the plan… if you can’t hit upon a better one we’ll adopt it”—is a manipulative conditional that corrals her towards his solution. Small structural beats confirm his dominance: Susan’s “I am quite in your hands” signals capitulation, and her final, anxious “Don’t run any risk!” shows that even she reads the danger chiefly as damage to his public image.

Overall, while there are flickers of genuine concern—his enquiries about their comfort and his professed anxiety for Elizabeth-Jane—the writer’s emphasis on status, secrecy, and managed appearances persuades me that Henchard’s aid is primarily a self-protective performance. I therefore agree to a great extent that he is taking control for selfish, reputation-centered reasons.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would argue that, although Henchard appears helpful, the writer mainly shows him guarding his reputation: he foregrounds status ("Mayor of the town, and churchwarden"), fears "our disgrace", and insists they "act with extreme caution" while proposing to "meet you, court you, and marry you" to keep his "shady, headstrong, disgraceful life...absolutely unopened". It would also notice methods, such as controlling imperatives like "you must start genteel" and "Look to me for money" in the dialogue, yet briefly acknowledge nuance in "the pleasure of seeing my own only child" and "said Henchard gently".

I mostly agree with the statement. Henchard clearly takes charge and presents his plan as help, but the writer suggests that protecting his public image is his priority, which makes him selfish.

From the outset, Henchard’s voice dominates the dialogue and he uses decisive modal verbs and imperatives: “we must talk of a plan,” “you two can’t return openly,” which position him as controller. His polysyndetic list of civic roles—“I am Mayor of the town, and churchwarden, and I don’t know what all?”—foregrounds status. The informal aside “I don’t know what all?” still flaunts prestige, reinforcing that reputation is at stake. The semantic field of shame—“our disgrace,” “extreme caution”—frames his concern less as care for Susan and more as damage limitation.

His proposed scheme sounds practical and protective, yet its phrasing exposes self-interest. The sequence “I meet you, court you, and marry you” reads like a performance to manage appearances, and he is explicit that it will keep his “shady, headstrong, disgraceful life… absolutely unopened.” That euphemistic triad shows he is keen to bury the past. Even his tenderness is controlling: the oxymoron “kindly severity” and adverb “gently” suggest paternalistic authority. He dictates details—“the only” lodgings “fit for you,” “you must start genteel”—where the imperative “must” and the adjective “genteel” stress outward show.

Although he offers money—“Look to me for money”—and asks after their comfort, these gestures are tied to image. His anxious rhetorical question, “the girl is quite safe from learning the shame…?—that’s what makes me most anxious,” could be protective, but the repeated focus on “shame” and secrecy suggests fear of exposure. Structurally, Susan’s “meek” responses and her final “Don’t run any risk!” keep reputation as the closing note.

Overall, while Henchard appears helpful and even affectionate, the writer’s language and structure emphasise his preoccupation with status and concealment. I therefore agree to a large extent that his main concern is his own reputation, which makes his help essentially selfish.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would partly agree, saying Henchard seems helpful but is really protecting his image, using simple quotes like Mayor of the town, dread of the girl discovering our disgrace, and you must start genteel to show his focus on reputation. It would also notice his controlling behaviour in I have thought of this plan and kindly severity, as basic evidence of selfishness.

I mostly agree with the statement. Henchard does take control and appears helpful, but the writer also shows he is worried about appearances and protects his name.

At the start, he says “we must talk of a plan” to keep Elizabeth “in her present belief”. The modal verb “must” and the firm tone make him sound in charge. He then lists his positions, “Mayor… churchwarden,” which foregrounds status, and admits the “dread of the girl discovering our disgrace.”

His “plan” sounds caring yet selfish. He will “meet you, court you, and marry you,” but says it would keep his “shady… disgraceful life… absolutely unopened” and the “secret… yours and mine only.” Through dialogue, imperatives like “you are not to go,” and orders about lodgings—“the only ones… fit for you,” “you must start genteel”—the writer shows control and a focus on appearances.

There are hints of kindness: he speaks “gently,” asks if she is “comfortable,” and offers money, and he wants to see his “only child.” However, what makes him “most anxious of all” is the girl learning “the shame,” not Susan’s feelings. Even Susan says, “Don’t run any risk!”, keeping attention on reputation. Overall, I agree to a large extent: he manages everything and seems helpful, but his main motive is his reputation, which is selfish.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree because he keeps bringing up status and shame, like Mayor and disgrace, and wants his shady, headstrong, disgraceful life kept secret, showing he cares about reputation more than Susan and seems selfish. He also sounds helpful with you are not to go and Look to me for money, but this is tied to acting with extreme caution to keep it hidden.

I mostly agree with the statement. Henchard takes control and looks helpful, but the writer shows he mainly cares about his reputation.

At the start, he leads with “we must talk of a plan,” which makes him sound in charge. He also lists his status, “Mayor of the town, and churchwarden,” and talks about “our disgrace.” This word choice suggests he worries about what people think of him. He repeats “plan,” so it feels organised by him.

He sets out a scheme to hide the truth: “you and Elizabeth take a cottage… as the widow Mrs. Newson,” and “I meet you, court you, and marry you.” The dialogue and the word “must” in “you must start genteel” show control and a focus on appearances. Saying the lodgings are the only ones “fit for you” and “Look to me for money” makes him sound bossy and keen to look respectable.

However, the adverbs “gently” and “with kindly severity” make him seem caring, and he wants “the pleasure of seeing my… child.” Even so, he insists his “disgraceful” past stays “unopened,” which shows image matters most.

Overall, I agree: he takes charge and seems helpful, but the writer suggests he is selfish about his good name.

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:

• Asserting authority through imperatives and planning → he seizes control of events to manage appearances (I have thought of this plan)
• Status-conscious self-presentation → listing civic offices signals reputation is paramount (Mayor of the town)
• Secrecy/shame lexicon → desire to keep past hidden protects status rather than healing relationships (shady, headstrong, disgraceful life)
• Fear of judgment framed in self-regard → his worry centres on his own feelings, not Susan’s (I could not bear it)
• Calculated courtship as cover → stage-managing a re‑marriage prioritises optics over honesty (court you, and marry you)
• Performative gentility → insists on costly lodging to project respectability, not comfort (you must start genteel)
• Explicit self-interest → he anticipates personal gratification from the arrangement (I should have the pleasure)
• Paternalistic control masked as care → oxymoron suggests benevolence that still dominates Susan (kindly severity)
• Naming/role assignment → recasts Susan to fit a concealing narrative, maintaining his image (widow Mrs. Newson)
• Mitigating practical care → money and welfare checks show some genuine support alongside self-protection (Look to me for money)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A travel company specialising in remote places is collecting short creative pieces for its new brochure.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a shipwreck on a remote beach 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 deliver a mysterious package.

(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 ship lies ruptured upon the strand, its ribs exposed to a sky the colour of tarnished pewter. No voices, no footprints, no forgiving path back to the channel; only the patient sough of the tide and the rasp of wind combing the dunes. Salt hangs in the air like ground glass, catching in the throat, prickling the tongue. The sun, winter-pale and wary, skims the horizon and spills an attenuated gold over the carcass; it does not warm it. Here, distance hums—no road, no sign, nothing but a long white seam of foam—while the beach breathes in slow, deliberate sighs: backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards—polishing the iron, worrying it.

Up close, the hull is a palimpsest of failed journeys: paint sloughed in ragged curls, plates buckled and scabbed with barnacles, rust flowering in vermilion blooms. Rivets protrude like old scars; the seams weep dark stains. A ladder, arthritic with corrosion, still clings to the flank, leading to nowhere. Above, a blackened spar is jammed at a crooked angle, a broken metronome that measures wind rather than time; shreds of sail—salt-stiff, frayed—flutter with the thin sound of paper. On the bow, ghosted letters flake from the curve; a name almost said. Who named it, and who watched that name be eaten? No one speaks here but weather. A brass porthole wears a crust of verdigris; seaweed embroideries the gunwale. An anchor chain, vertebrae upon vertebrae, snakes through the sand and disappears with a stubborn, secretive kink.

Inside the torn hull, shadow pools. There is a dank, medicinal smell—tar, oil, old rope—that rises when the sun touches the metal. The hold gapes, a sunless chapel with a floor of pulverised shells and bottle glass winking like shy fish. A crab scuttles, officious, between ribs; a gull claims the prow, priestly in its impudence. If you listen, really listen, the wreck speaks in pinched, reluctant syllables: a creak, a tick, the delicate tinsel of dripping water. Perhaps a storm threw it here; perhaps it simply tired and knelt. The sea, meanwhile, never explains. It is implacable, and yet oddly tender, stroking the hull with lace-edged hands (not mercy—only motion).

Beyond, the beach runs in a pale arc, austere and unadorned. Marram grass holds the dunes in a fierce grip; the sand is sifted, fine as flour, stippled with the prints of birds and nothing else. The horizon is a hard line—slate, then silver, then a brief, exhausted blue. Because the place is so remote, every small sound dilates: the brittle clack of shells; the clatter of a loosened shackle; the wind making a thin violin in the rigging wire. The air tastes faintly of iron. Time behaves differently here; it slows, eddies, returns upon itself, as if unwilling to proceed.

Even now the tide gathers, deliberate and uncomplaining. It crawls into the cavities, salts the bones, leaves crystals like frost in the seams. The wreck endures, but only for now; the ocean has an appetite and an excellent memory. Everything is sifted to essentials: salt and steel and time. And yet, as the sun lowers and the long shadow of the hull stitches itself to the dunes, there is a kind of grace in the ruin, a difficult beauty. A stubborn relic. A quiet, wind-burnished monument to departure, to arrival, to all the journeys that never learned their endings.

Option B:

Night. The hour of borrowed secrets; streets rinsed to a bruised violet, windows a scatter of watchful eyes. Rain stitched the air into fine, glistening threads; the river unspooled like dark ribbon, its surface needled by the persistent embroidery of drizzle. When the city exhaled—sirens somewhere, a motorbike’s snarl, the low hum of late trains—the sound folded back on itself, a palimpsest of departures and almost-returns.

Mara turned the package in her hands. It was the size of a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper that had absorbed the day’s damp and the faint scent of cloves; twine was cinched in a neat cross, tight enough to crease the skin of the parcel and her palms alike. There was a seal—a red moth impressed in wax—that glinted as she tilted it, less ominous than precise. No sender. Just a slanted instruction in a careful hand: Deliver by dawn. Do not open.

She shrugged on her coat and slipped the package into her rucksack, aligning it so the corners didn’t jab. As heavy as a promise and almost as awkward. The hallway’s light buzzed above her—moths came to it, soft bodies tap-tap-tapping against the plastic—and she thought, not for the first time, that she could simply set the parcel on the sideboard and go back to bed. However, the words from earlier pressed like a thumb at her throat: You’re the only one they won’t question. Go quickly. Say nothing.

Outside, puddles mirrored the sodium lamps in trembling coins. The timetable on the bus shelter flickered, green digits hiccupping over cancellations. Meanwhile, a stray cat threaded itself between her ankles and evaporated into a hedge. The 12 was late; the 12 was coming; the 12 arrived with a rattling sigh as if exhausted by its own inevitability. She took a seat near the back where she could see the aisles and, reflected in the window, the ridgeline of her own face ghosted by streetlight.

At the third stop, a man with a damp newspaper and a falcon’s profile glanced at her bag and then away. Coincidence, she told herself—coincidence is the laziest shape of fear—yet her fingers tightened around the strap until they ached. She tried to calculate routes: the bus to Bank, the last train south, a trek along the river to North Quay. If the bridge was closed—and of course it would be, at night, in rain—she would have to cut under the arches where the city smelled of iron and stale beer.

The driver announced a diversion. Of course. Mara stepped off early into the sluicing dark and wove towards Lowgate Station, the clock above the concourse marching redly through 00:47, 00:48, 00:49. There was only one rule: do not open it. Nevertheless, on the platform, with the train a rumour becoming form—the susurration of wheels, a long metallic sigh—she felt curiosity rise with an almost physical temperature. What could possibly be worth this secrecy? A key? A letter between enemies? Something colder, heavier, not quite named?

The twine rasped as she ran a thumb along it. She imagined, briefly, the wax cracking, the paper sighing back, answers tumbling out like coins or ash. No. She breathed, forced her hand away, and watched the carriage doors stutter open. There would be time for doubt elsewhere; now was for motion.

She found a seat by the door. Opposite, a child slept with his face smudged by sugar and dreams; a woman in a coral scarf counted out pills with the scrupulousness of a jeweller. The river unspooled to her right in intermittent flashes, an inkstroke, a veined mirror, and beyond it, somewhere not far enough and not close enough, a warehouse with a single obedient light burning.

Deliver by dawn, the note had said. Easy, she thought—too easy, maybe. Yet when the city sleeps, its secrets do not; they travel, quietly, in the hands of people who should have refused and didn’t.

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

Option A:

The hull rises like a broken tooth from the tideline, jagged and stained, pointing at a sky the colour of old pewter. Wind combs the marram; the dunes whisper in small, steady breaths; the surf pulls thin lace from the shore and unravels it again. No footsteps mark the wide, pale sand—only wind-etched ridges and the faint punctuation of gulls. It is quiet here.

Close to, the wreck shows its history not as dates but as textures: scabrous, ridged, flaking. Rust blooms in ochre constellations around the black-headed rivets, and the iron plates, once a brave blue (a stubborn vein of it survives beneath the corrosion), overlap like tired armour. A porthole winks, blind with salt; barnacles button the edges; frayed rope, salt-stiff, kinks against the hull. The smell is layered—brine and old engine oil, tar sweet and sharp, the iodine bite of weed. Chain links clack against themselves with a lazy authority, and the wind threads the ribcage and makes its low music, a hollow, patient humming that seems both warning and lullaby.

I try to read the story written into these angles, these wounds. Perhaps there was a midnight gale; perhaps a misread light; perhaps a turn taken seconds too late. What did they shout when the prow first bit the sand? The sea would have been louder than sense, louder than the captain’s order, louder than prayer. I can almost taste it—the cold, iron tang of panic—as waves shouldered the beam, as crates slid and men staggered, as the compass trembled uselessly while the keel found its new and final alphabet: drag, jar, stop. Afterwards the tide went about its ancient business, back and forth, back and forth, smoothing the shock into routine. The shoreline, implacable, learned the shape of this intruder and did not protest.

Now it sits like a bleached carcass on the wide, remote strand, a monument to stubbornness and salt. Gulls docket themselves along the gunwale like austere notes on a stave; a fox has written cursive tracks under the splintered ladder; crabs arrange their small, deliberate parades between ribs. The beach keeps its distance—dunes to one side, water to the other—yet everything belongs: wrack, driftwood, a green bottle, the ship’s shadow. When sun needled through the cloud for a moment, the rust seemed almost to glow—fiercely, briefly—as if remembering. Then the light softened and withdrew; the tide leaned in again with its sure, white hands, patient as ever, intent on finishing what it began.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour of thin light; a pale seam stitched along the horizon while the city uncurl​ed from its own dark. Windows blinked awake; gutters whispered; the street held its breath. For most, morning is a merciful reset; for me, it was a summons—wrapped in paper, tied with string.

In the kitchen’s hush, the kettle hiccupped and settled. I turned the package over: modest, rectangular, no return address, almost weightless—and yet it pressed into my palm with ineluctable intent. Brown paper grazed my fingertips; twine scored a crude X. A red wax seal—part compass, part eye—glossed one corner. Two words in neat, laconic print: "Do not open." Some instructions are simple; the consequences are not.

I slid it beneath my coat; it didn’t vanish so much as burn there, a contained ember. My keys chattered; the lock clicked; the stairwell breathed cold into my collar. On the pavement, last night’s rain lay in shallow coins. Buses growled; a cyclist hissed past like a drawn knife. What could weigh so little and ask so much? There are burdens you carry with your arms, and others you carry in your mind; this felt like both.

The station smelled of coffee and brake dust. I bought a ticket and boarded the first eastbound train. Opposite sat a man with ink-freckled fingertips; beside him, a woman murmured into her scarf, prayers or appointments. The windows made a palimpsest of the city—brick and sky sliding over my reflection, the coat-bound parcel a dark square nested inside another. When the train lurched into a tunnel, the lights hiccupped; the package shifted—no more than a sigh. "Ridiculous," I told myself (too loud), and a teenager glanced up, amused.

Last night at the café, the handover had been brisk. She slid the parcel across the table and said, "Keep your head down; go straight to Dock Three; give it to the man in the navy cap. No questions; no detours." "Why me?" I’d asked—purely procedural. "Because you don’t look like a messenger," she replied, eyes the colour of old glass. It sounded like a compliment; it didn’t feel like one.

The river greeted me with its sour, metallic breath. Gulls heckled the morning; ropes rasped against bollards. Warehouses hunched along the bank—1, 2, 3—numbers peeling. Dock Three’s door stood ajar, chain glinting. My phone buzzed once and died. Footsteps synchronized with mine; I stopped; so did they. I tightened my grip and turned. A man stepped from the shadow. Then he spoke my name, as if he had always known it.

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

Option A:

The shipwreck squats on the empty beach, a ribbed carcass stranded above the slow tide. Wind threads through its iron bones and makes a long, low note, as if the whole thing is breathing out. The light is thin; the sky is a dull sheet pressed flat by weather. Gulls wheel with ragged cries that fall and rise, and the smell—salt, oil, rust—clings to the air and the tongue. It looks like a skeleton and also like a house burned hollow. It should be dead. It isn’t.

Closer, the plates of the hull are peeled back like scabs, edges orange and friable. Rivets sit in crooked rows, swollen with corrosion; the paint has blistered into islands that curl up at the corners. A rope as stiff as driftwood trails from a bent bollard and taps the sand again and again as the water nudges it. Chains lie in a careless heap—links thick as wrists—where the sea has dumped them. When the wind shifts, the wreck gives a tired creak, like a door remembering how to open.

Here the beach is wide and mostly empty. Dunes lean back from the shore, their grass a tangle of pale blades, and there are no fresh footprints, only the thin zigzags of sand-hoppers and the delicate tracing of a crab. The sea does not hurry. It comes in cautious hands, patting the shore and then taking it; the foam leaves white lace along a line of weed and shells. Beyond, the horizon is a hard, grey seam. A cormorant stands on a post and shakes its wet wings.

On the flank of the wreck are the ghostly remains of a name, letters rubbed almost smooth by salt. The wheel is jammed at a stubborn angle. There is evidence of journeys here: a crate with a foreign stamp, a bottle clouded with sand. I try to imagine voices, the growl of engines, the rhythm of work—but the beach gives only wind and the soft shush of water. Yet the wreck keeps a rough dignity; the ribs hold fast while the tide lifts, presses, lifts again. Still it waits.

Option B:

Dawn: a thin ribbon of light along the slate roofs, a pale promise after a long, restless night. The package sat in the middle of the kitchen table, small and stubborn, wrapped in brown paper and tied with fraying twine. A red wax seal was pressed crookedly at one corner; beneath the string, a scrap of card told her what mattered: "Deliver by dusk. Do not open."

Mara ran her thumb along the ridge of the twine, felt it bite; she breathed, slow, and slid the parcel into her backpack. It was heavier than it looked; as heavy as a secret. The address scrawled in ink tugged at her eye—Wren Hill Observatory—letters leaning like they were in a hurry. The kitchen clock clicked, each second loud against the quiet; she didn't hear a sound from the parcel, but she imagined one, a faint, patient thrum.

Outside, the morning was wet and undecided. Rain stitched diagonals across the street; the first bus sighed at the kerb and released warm, coin-smelling air. She climbed on and took a seat at the back, the parcel pressed tight against her ribs. Around her were ordinary things—schoolbags, a man with a newspaper, a girl mouthing lyrics—nothing to mark today as different, except those words and the twist in her stomach.

The city unreeled in wet panels: shuttered shops, a bakery breathing steam, puddles holding upside-down sky. Still, the bus crawled; still, she whispered in her head, Don't open it, don't open it. At the next junction, a yellow sign stabbed at her plan: DIVERSION. Roadworks chewed up the centre, and the route on the tiny screen blinked away. Time, she knew, would be the first thing to go.

She pressed the bell. The doors folded back and spat her into drizzle and, instead of waiting for another bus, she cut through the old market under the iron ribs of the railway. The air smelt of wet cardboard and last night's chips; somewhere a cat hissed at nothing. The package nudged her spine. Deliver by dusk. Dusk would not wait. Before she stepped out, someone else stepped in—shadow first, voice second: "You're late."

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

Option A:

The wreck sits crooked on the pale sand, as if the sea stopped mid-breath. Around it the beach is empty — no footsteps, no huts — only the hiss of wind and the pull of the tide. Its spine points at the sky like a warning finger, and its shadow lies stretched.

Closer, the hull is a map of decay: orange blossoms of rust, cracked paint, letters rubbed to ghosts. Bolts stare like blind eyes; ropes hang in stiff, salty braids. Through broken ribs, daylight spills, striping the sand. The smell is heavy and familiar: brine, tar, wood. When the water moves, it whispers under the metal belly, in and out, in and out.

I place my palm on the iron; it is cold and rough, and a tiny flake snaps away. A gull hops along the beam and scolds me; its voice bounces off the dunes. Inside, the floor is cluttered with seaweed and shattered glass, mirrors catching light. A wheel, tilted and still, clings to the cabin wall as if waiting for hands that will never come. Cables tangle like veins. It looks both dangerous and sad. I imagine the storm that drove it here, a mouth of black waves, the captain shouting, the compass trembling.

Beyond the wreck, the beach curves towards pale cliffs, distant; the horizon is a thin, silver line. Nothing else moves but foam and a ribbon of sand that snakes along the keel. The air tastes of iron and old pennies, and I think of the people who once stood here, maybe, wondering what to do next. The sea keeps trying the same thing, again and again, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. It almost seems to tug at the ship, like a child tugging a sleeve, but the wreck stays where it is, stubborn and oddly proud.

Option B:

Evening: the time when shop signs blink, buses groan, and the streets hold their breath. I stood under the station clock with a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The knot bit into my fingers, as if the package wanted to stay with me. On the top, a single line in smudged ink: Deliver to 17 Black Lane by midnight. Do not open. Cold nibbled at my knuckles; diesel and rain hung in the air.

My instructions had been simple, and strange. Three rules: don't look, don't stop, don't speak. The man in the frayed grey coat pressed the parcel into my hands behind the bakery, his breath sweet with coffee and worry. "Keep it flat," he muttered, "and don't be late," then was gone. I slid the parcel into my backpack and felt its weight settle - a small, stubborn brick. I tightened the straps; it didn't make me braver.

The bus arrived with a shudder and a sigh. I climbed on, paid, and found a seat by the window. The city slid by in pieces: umbrellas like dark mushrooms, puddles trembling under tyres. I kept my backpack on my lap, palms resting on the parcel as if it were an animal that might bolt. What could be inside? The thought scratched. I wanted to peek - to tear the careful paper - but I didn't. Not yet.

The bus lurched; my bag slipped and I grabbed it so fast my nails scraped the fabric. "Careful," a woman said, frowning, and I nodded, my throat too tight for words. I checked my phone - the map lagged, the battery fell to 12%. Black Lane was a thin thread on the screen, squeezed behind warehouses and a silent canal. The sky deepened to ink. Unknown number. A message: Are you on your way? I swallowed and typed, Yes.

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

Option A:

The wreck sits on the remote beach like a giant, broken animal. Above it, the sky is a thin, washed-out blue; the sun hides behind light cloud. Wind slides across the dunes and pulls at the marram grass. There are no footprints here, only the scribbles of gulls and the wavering marks of crabs.

At first I notice the colour: rust blooms across the metal in flakes of red and brown. The hull leans to one side; it looks tired. Plates of steel have peeled back, ribs exposed, and barnacles crust the edges. Sand has piled against the hull, a small dune hugging it. A rope, tangled and stiff with salt, lies like a sleeping snake.

Then the beach speaks in small sounds. Waves push and retreat, push and retreat; the rhythm is slow. Water glints in shallow pools trapped inside the ship; it trembles and flashes — like fish scales. Somewhere inside, a loose bolt ticks. A gull shrieks, then quiet.

Smells roll over: tar, salt, old diesel, seaweed. The letters of the ship’s name are faded, almost gone, so the past feels close but not clear. Windows gape like tired eyes, and the mast is a jagged silhouette against the pale horizon. Meanwhile the tide crawls closer, foam licking the sand. For a moment everything holds its breath. I imagine voices, hands, a bell, all of it swallowed. Silence arrives again, not heavy, just stretched out and waiting.

Option B:

Before the sun was fully awake, the street lay like a long grey ribbon. Windows yawned a little light; puddles held scraps of sky, and the air smelt of wet stone and yesterday’s bread. Somewhere a van coughed and clattered, then moved on, leaving the quiet behind.

On my kitchen table the parcel waited. Brown paper, tight twine, corners folded so sharp they could cut. There was a message on the top: Do not open. I turned it over, it was small but strangely heavy. I pressed my palm against it and felt the faint thud of my own heart, ticking like the clock on the wall. It wasn’t my job to ask questions. Do not open—just deliver.

First, the bus. Then the train. After that, the walk along the river to the old warehouse I’d been told about. I slid the parcel into my backpack, keeping it upright, kept seperate by a scarf and a battered notebook. It leaned into me as I pulled on my coat, as if it wanted to be closer. What could be inside? A book? A brick? Something I didn’t have a name for.

Outside, the wind tugged at my sleeves and the bus-stop sign shivered. The early Number 9 came grumbling round the corner and the doors sighed open. I climbed aboard and sat near the back. The parcel pressed into my ribs like a sleeping cat, warm and stubborn. I told myself not to think about it; my brain kept tripping over the same words.

Do not open.

The city unspooled beyond the smeared window—shops, shutters, a cyclist, a fox trotting like a secret. At the next stop, a man in a grey hat got on and looked twice at my bag. I looked away and held it tighter. The journey had properly begun.

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

Option A:

The beach was empty, stretched like a pale sheet under a washed-out sky. Wind moved the dune grass, whispering. The air smelt of salt and old iron. Only one thing broke the quiet: the shipwreck. It hunched on the sand, dark and huge. At first it looked like a stranded whale—a tired giant.

Closer, the body of the ship showed its age. Rust bloomed in orange patches across the hull, and the paint curled like sunburned skin. Barnacles clung to the edges; ropes were stiff and green. It's ribs stuck out, sharp and crooked, making a metal cage the wind played through. A chain lay like a dead snake. When the breeze pushed, the wreck creaked, an old door opening again and again.

Meanwhile, the waves kept trying to reach it; they hissed and fell away, back and forth. Foam touched the sand and pulled it, like small hands. A gull cried once, and the sound got lost in the empty space. I saw my footprints; they looked temporary. On this remote shore, the broken ship waited, stubborn and lonely, as if it was still listening for orders that will never come.

Option B:

Morning crawled along the platform like a slow animal; lights flickered, and the tannoy mumbled a sleepy warning. In my hands sat the package, small but stubborn. Brown paper, crossed with old string, edges soft like it had been held too much. I pressed it to my coat. It felt heavier than it's size, almost pulsing.

I had one instruction on a crumpled note: deliver before dusk. And another line, underlined three times: Do not open. The words echoed. Do not open. What could be inside—money, a letter, something worse? The sender's name was smudged; my own name was clear. It made my stomach twist, a small knot I couldn't undo.

First, the bus. It groaned up the hill and the city smelt of wet metal. Rain started, I pulled my hood up and the box drank a few drops. People stared, or maybe I only thought they did. At the next stop a man in a grey coat stepped on, he stood too near. The parcel warmed under my palm; I changed seats, pretending it was nothing.

At last the bus hissed by the river. Destination: Dock 12. I breathed out, slowly. Then a voice behind me said my name, quiet and careful. I froze.

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

Option A:

The rusty ship sits on the sand like a tired animal. The beach is empty, there is no houses, no people. The wind pushes the waves and they go back and forth, back and forth. The metal sides are brown and red, and the paint is peeling. It looks broken and old - like it fell asleep and never woke up.

I walk near it but slow because the ground is soft. The smell is salty and strong. A gull shouts and then it goes. I touch the side, it is cold. Water drips in lines and leaves marks on the sand.

A rope hangs and it swings, it creaks. The sky is grey. I think about the storm that put it here. I dont know who owned it. There is only the sea and the wreck and the wind. It feels far away from town, like the world forgot this place.

Option B:

Morning. Grey light on the street. The package sat on the table like it was watching me. Brown paper, string, a small note that said Do not open. My hands shook and I picked it up. It felt heavy, heavier than it looked.

I had to take it across town to a door with a number I wrote on my hand. Me and the box went out into the cold. The wind pushed my coat and the bus was late, it always is.

I kept thinking about what was inside, maybe a book, maybe a clock, maybe something else.

Mum said dont be long, but I was on the road. I climbed on with the box and a coin slipped, it rang on the floor like a bell. I held the package tight and the city moved past like slow water — I weren't ready, but I went.

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

Option A:

The beach is empty and the ship is there, broken and rusty in the sand. Waves push and pull, back and forth, back and forth. It smells like salt and old metal and wet wood. The ribs stick up like teeth and the deck is torn. Gulls cry and the wind hits my face. I think about my shoes and my phone has no signal and I dont care. The sky is grey it feels bigger here. It looks sad like it is sleeping but not. No people just me and I am cold. The ship isnt moving it will stay for ever.

Option B:

Mornin was cold. I held the box tight. It was small and taped up. The label said do not open. I had to deliver it to the old bridge, thats what the man told me. The bus was late so I walked and the road was long and the wind pushed me and my bag was heavy and I kept thinking about the misterious package. I keep it under my coat, like a little animal. What is in there? A phone, a rock, money, nothing. I was hungry. My feet hurt. Hurry he said, hurry! i dont even know him but I go.