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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 What came to be haunted?: the house – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the narrator, who hears the repeated words 'There must be more money!' even though nobody says those words aloud?: The children – 1 mark
• 1.3 What did the expensive and splendid toys fill?: the nursery – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which item is described as shining and modern?: the rocking-horse – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 more money! There must be more money!" And the children would stop playing, to listen for a moment. They would look into each other's eyes, to see if they had all heard. And each one saw in the eyes of the other two that they too had heard. "There must be more money! There must be more money!" It came

11 whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse, and even the horse, bending his wooden, champing head, heard it. The big doll, sitting so pink and smirking in her new pram, could hear it quite plainly, and seemed to be smirking all the more self-consciously because of it. The foolish puppy, too, that took the place of the teddy-bear, he was looking so extraordinarily

How does the writer use language here to present the effect of the whisper on the children and the toys? 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: Through anaphoric repetition and sibilance, the chant "There must be more money!" and the disembodied "whispering" "from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse" create an invasive, hypnotic soundscape, reinforced by parallel clauses beginning "They would" and the insistent "And", which show the children’s shared, anxious attunement as they "look into each other’s eyes". Personification and ironic detail—the horse "bending his wooden, champing head" and the doll "smirking all the more self-consciously" (with even the "foolish puppy" implicated)—corrupt the toys’ innocence, suggesting a household possessed by material desire.

The writer employs anaphora and exclamatory declaratives to render the whisper invasive and irresistible. The repeated cry, “There must be more money!” with its insistent exclamation, becomes almost incantatory, compelling the children to “stop playing” and “listen.” The modal “would” suggests a habitual, ritualised interruption of innocence. Moreover, the collective gaze—“they would look into each other’s eyes… each one saw in the eyes of the other two”—uses chiasmic repetition and a semantic field of perception (“listen,” “heard,” “see”) to show anxiety spreading contagiously through the group.

Furthermore, sibilance in “whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse” mimics the hiss of the voice, while the prepositional phrase “from the springs” implies the whisper is embedded in the very mechanisms of play. Anthropomorphism intensifies the uncanny: “even the horse, bending his wooden, champing head, heard it.” The paradox of “wooden” with animated verbs (“bending,” “champing,” “heard”) suggests the whisper animates inert things, unsettling the reader and signalling its corrupting reach.

Additionally, the doll “sitting so pink and smirking in her new pram… could hear it quite plainly,” where the adverbial intensifier “quite plainly” implies blatant audibility, and “smirking all the more self-consciously” conveys heightened vanity, as if the whisper magnifies performative, money-minded display. Similarly, the “foolish puppy… that took the place of the teddy-bear” carries connotations of disposability and replacement, linking the toys to consumerism. The incomplete build of “looking so extraordinarily—” hints at hyperbolic distortion, as though the whisper warps even expression. Altogether, language choices present a pervasive voice that halts children’s play and animates toys, saturating the nursery with uneasy, acquisitive urgency.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses repetition and exclamatives to show the whisper’s intrusive urgency: "There must be more money! There must be more money!" makes the children "stop playing" and "look into each other's eyes," suggesting shared tension, while the repeated "And" creates a relentless rhythm. Personification and sibilance make the whisper feel pervasive and unsettling as it comes "whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse," and even the toys seem affected—"the horse, bending his wooden, champing head," and "The big doll... smirking... self-consciously"—so the nursery seems eerily controlled by the voice.

Firstly, the writer uses repetition and exclamative direct speech to convey the whisper’s urgency and its impact on the children. The repeated cry, “There must be more money! There must be more money!” with exclamation marks, creates an insistent tone that interrupts play; the children “would stop playing” and “look into each other’s eyes,” showing shared anxiety and a contagious pressure.

Furthermore, personification presents the whisper infiltrating the toys. It comes “whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse,” where sibilance in “springs” and “still-swaying” mimics a hiss, creating an eerie effect. “The horse, bending his wooden, champing head, heard it,” animating the object that the whisper seems powerful enough to awaken the inanimate.

Moreover, the writer’s descriptive choices show how the toys echo the mood. The “big doll… smirking” and “smirking all the more self-consciously” suggests an uneasy complicity, as if the toy recognises the greed and preens in it. The “foolish puppy… took the place of the teddy-bear” hints at shallow replacement and excess, while the adverb “plainly” shows how unavoidable the whisper becomes. In addition, the repeated connective “And” builds a piling rhythm, showing how the whisper keeps returning to dominate both children and toys.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: At Level 2, candidates typically point out the repetition and exclamatory form in "There must be more money!" to show urgency and pressure, saying it makes the children "stop playing" and "look into each other's eyes". They also notice simple personification, with "whispering" from the "still-swaying rocking-horse" and "even the horse" that "heard it", plus descriptive words like "pink", "smirking" and "foolish", to suggest the whisper affects the toys and makes them seem alive.

The writer uses repetition and exclamatory sentences: “There must be more money!” The repeated line makes the whisper urgent and inescapable. The children “would stop playing” and “look into each other’s eyes,” showing it interrupts their game and makes them anxious.

Furthermore, personification presents the whisper affecting the toys. It is “whispering from the springs of the still-swaying rocking-horse,” and “even the horse… heard it.” This makes the room feel alive and controlled by the whisper.

Additionally, the big doll is “smirking… all the more self-consciously,” and the “foolish puppy” is “looking,” which suggests the whisper embarrasses and changes the toys’ expressions. The sibilance in “springs… still-swaying” echoes a soft hiss, like a real whisper. Overall, these choices show the whisper spreading through children and toys, creating pressure and unease.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses repetition of "There must be more money!" and the sound word "whispering" to show the voice keeps happening and makes the children "stop playing" and "look into each other's eyes." Simple personification shows the toys are affected too, as the rocking-horse "heard it" and the doll is "smirking" "all the more self-consciously."

The writer uses repetition, “There must be more money!”, to show the whisper is constant. It makes the children stop and listen, so we see they are affected. Furthermore, personification is used when it comes “whispering” from the “rocking-horse” and “even the horse… heard it”. This makes the toys seem alive. Moreover, the adjectives “pink” and “smirking” for the doll show it seems pleased and self-conscious. Additionally, the verbs “stop”, “listen”, “look” show the children’s reaction, as they check “each other’s eyes” to see if they heard.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Repetition of exclamatory direct speech conveys relentless urgency and pressure on the children: "There must be more money!"
• Habitual modal construction shows a repeated, conditioned response as they pause play to listen: "would stop playing"
• Shared gaze and triadic phrasing create silent mutual confirmation that all have heard: "each other's eyes"
• Anaphora of And builds a cumulative, inevitable rhythm to their reactions: "And each one"
• Sibilance and whisper imagery make the sound seem secretive and pervasive: "springs of the still-swaying"
• Personification animates the rocking-horse with lifelike behaviour, intensifying the whisper’s power: "champing head"
• Evaluative and vivid description of the doll suggests a self-aware reaction to the message: "so pink and smirking"
• Paradox of audibility (a whisper heard clearly) suggests inescapable influence: "quite plainly"
• Cumulative listing with inclusion markers shows the spread from child to toy, emphasised by "even" and "too": "even the horse"
• Replacement detail implies unsettling change among the toys under the whisper’s influence: "took the place"

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how eeriness intensifies from beginning to end
• 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 structural escalation from the opening refrain—"There must be more money!"—whose "whispering" spreads "everywhere" like "We are breathing!", with personified toys that "heard it", to a tonal pivot into dialogue about "luck" (spoken "bitterly") and finally a narrowed focus on Paul’s intensifying obsession—"seeking inwardly", then "charging madly" with a "strange glare" as the girls "dared not speak"—showing how shifts from communal haunt to isolated frenzy heighten eeriness.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create eeriness is by establishing and sustaining an obsessive refrain. The opening frames the house with the anaphoric chant, “There must be more money!” heard “all the time” although “nobody said it aloud”. The focus then pans across the nursery—“rocking-horse”, “doll’s house”, “puppy”—each “hears” it. This cumulative listing saturates the setting so the whisper feels ambient, like “breathing”. Juxtaposing “Christmas” and “expensive and splendid toys” with the invasive whisper unsettles the tone. The children “stop playing” and “look… into each other’s eyes”: a pause that slows pace and turns shared, unspoken knowledge into quiet dread.

In addition, a temporal pivot, “one day”, moves us into a Q&A with Mother about “luck” and “lucre”. The dialogic structure, with clipped interjections (“Oh!”, “Why?”), fractures rhythm and denies certainty. Her “bitter” tone and evasions keep the threat ineffable. Structurally, the spectral whisper is reframed as a domestic curse—financial fate—which is more chilling because it cannot be directly admitted.

Furthermore, the focalisation narrows to Paul and the narrative builds to a crescendo. He “went off by himself” with “stealth”; triadic repetition—“He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it”—signals compulsion. The final movement shifts from hush to violent motion as he rides “charging madly into space”, while the girls “dared not speak”. That closing silence echoes the opening taboo (“no one spoke it”), forming a sinister structural loop and leaving the nursery haunted by what remains unsaid.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how eeriness is built by the repeated refrain "There must be more money!", which spreads so "The whisper was everywhere" and "Yet nobody ever said it aloud," making the silence itself unsettling. It would also track the shift from this haunting chorus into question-and-answer dialogue defining luck—"It's what causes you to have money"—before narrowing to Paul's obsession—"seeking inwardly for luck", "Wildly the horse careered"—to show the eeriness intensifying as the focus moves from house to boy.

One way in which the writer structures eeriness is by opening with an anaphoric refrain: “There must be more money!” Repetition patterns the phrase across the setting (“behind the… rocking-horse”, “from the springs”), establishing a motif that seems to spread through the house. The omniscient opening frames the house as “haunted by the unspoken phrase”, and because “nobody said it aloud” the disembodied voice pervading the children’s play creates a quiet, uncanny dread.

In addition, a shift in focus into domestic dialogue, signalled by the temporal marker “one day”, slows the pace. The Q&A turns (“Why?” / “I don’t know”) foreground silence and withholding (“He never tells”), so the threat remains unsaid. Structurally, the talk reframes the refrain as “luck” and money, suggesting the whisper has slipped from walls into thought.

A further structural feature is the final zoom-in and escalation on Paul. After the measured exchange, the narrative accelerates into obsessive rhythm: “He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it.” This change in pace and the climactic focus on the rocking-horse (“charging madly into space”) turn atmosphere into threat. The girls “dared not speak”, echoing the opening’s enforced silence, which gives the extract cohesion and leaves the reader with a heightened sense of unease.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses repetition of the eerie, "There must be more money!", so it spreads from toys to the whole house ("The whisper was everywhere", "Yet nobody ever said it aloud") to build a creepy atmosphere. Then the focus shifts to dialogue ("Mother," said the boy Paul...) and ends with Paul's unsettling actions ("charging madly into space", "frenzy", "strange glare"), so the mood grows more disturbing.

One way the writer structures the text to create eeriness is by repetition at the beginning and a list of nursery objects. The phrase "There must be more money!" is repeated like a whisper round the nursery, even behind the "rocking-horse" and "doll's house". This constant echo makes the house feel haunted, and the children "stop playing" and stare, which builds unease.

In addition, the focus shifts in the middle to dialogue between Paul and his mother. The question-and-answer pattern about "luck" slows the pace and exposes tension. The tone turns "bitter", so hidden worries are suggested, keeping the reader unsure and adding to the eerie mood.

A further structural feature is the end moving into Paul's perspective and action. He goes "by himself" and rides the rocking-horse "charging madly". The girls "peer" and "dared not speak". This ending intensifies the eeriness from quiet whispers to a disturbing obsession.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer repeats "There must be more money!" and words like "whispering", saying it is "everywhere" but "nobody ever said it aloud", to make the house feel eerie. The focus then moves from the nursery to the family ("Mother", "the boy Paul") and ends with Paul "charging madly", so the eeriness builds.

One way the writer structures the text to make it eerie is the repetition at the beginning. The phrase “There must be more money!” keeps coming back. It feels like a whisper round the house.

In addition, the focus shifts to dialogue in the middle. The talk between Paul and his mother about “luck” slows the pace and keeps a strange mood, so the eeriness quietly continues.

A further structural feature is the ending focus on Paul on the rocking-horse. The action increases and ends with short sentences like “The little girls dared not speak,” which feels eerie.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening with an unspoken refrain immediately frames the whole house as haunted and sets an ominous baseline (There must be more money!)
• Refrain recurs as an echo across paragraphs, the voice moving from place to place to build relentless pressure (It came whispering)
• Listing and personifying nursery objects blurs animate/inanimate boundaries, widening the eerie spread through the home (even the horse)
• Collective pause and mutual checking structure a hush after each recurrence, making the children complicitly silent (would stop playing)
• Paradoxical secrecy intensifies unease: although heard everywhere, it remains taboo and unsayable (nobody ever said it aloud)
• Authorial aside universalises the phenomenon, making the whisper feel as involuntary and inescapable as breath (We are breathing!)
• A tonal and mode shift to dialogue grounds the eeriness in domestic lack, sharpening the tension between normality and dread (has no luck)
• A chain of probing questions accelerates pace and uncertainty, structuring an anxious search for causes (Is luck money, mother?)
• A causal pivot—mother’s dismissal—propels Paul into secret action, turning unease into purpose (did not believe him)
• Structural return of the rocking-horse motif delivers a frantic climax that leaves the scene on a disturbing edge (charging madly into space)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 21 to the end.

In this part of the source, when Paul rides his rocking-horse with a 'strange glare', his game seems disturbing rather than fun. The writer suggests the family's obsession with money is becoming dangerous and unnatural for the child.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Paul's behaviour on the rocking-horse
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the family's dangerous obsession
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the writer presents the family’s money-obsession as dangerously distorting Paul’s play, using violent kinetic imagery (“charging madly into space”, “Wildly the horse careered”) and pathologizing detail (“with a frenzy”, “strange glare”) to recast the game as compulsion rather than fun. It would link Paul’s fixation to the household creed of luck through the repetition “he wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it” and his urge to “compel her attention”, noting how others’ fear (“The little girls dared not speak to him”) corroborates the writer’s viewpoint that this obsession is becoming dangerous and unnatural.

I agree to a large extent that Paul’s riding feels disturbing rather than playful, and that the family’s fixation on money is shown to be dangerous and unnatural for a child. The writer first seeds this through the mother’s dialogue, which frames “luck” as the engine of wealth. Her tone is persistently “bitter” and cynical, as in “said slowly and bitterly,” and the maxim “it’s what causes you to have money” reduces value to cash. The punning confusion between “filthy lucker” and “filthy lucre” signals how a child’s moral vocabulary is being warped by adult money-talk; the lexis of “luck,” “money,” and “rich” forms a relentless semantic field that normalises acquisitiveness. Even her “sudden laugh,” “rather bitter,” reads as derision, chilling Paul’s attempt to connect.

The narrative then focalises Paul’s interior shift from curiosity to compulsion. His assertion “I’m a lucky person” is dismissed; she “paid no attention,” and “This angered him somewhere.” That vague adverbial “somewhere” suggests an unnameable wound. Structurally, this neglect propels him into secrecy: “He went off by himself… seeking for the clue to ‘luck’,” the quotation marks fetishising the word as an object to be unlocked. The triadic repetition and anaphora in “He wanted it, he wanted it, he wanted it” build a drumbeat of desire; the effect is incantatory, more mantra than game, hinting at obsession rather than innocent play.

When the rocking-horse appears, the kinetic imagery escalates the disturbance. Dynamic verbs—“charging,” “career[ed]”—and intensifiers like “madly” and “with a frenzy” create a semantic field of violence and loss of control. The horse “career[ed]” as if it has a will of its own, so the toy becomes an uncanny symbol of a force steering the child. The adverbial phrase “into space” suggests dissociation: he is riding away from reality. Visually, his “waving dark hair” and the “strange glare” in his eyes mark him as transformed; the little sisters “peer… uneasily” and “dared not speak,” a structural juxtaposition with their gentle “playing dolls” that heightens how abnormal Paul’s state is. The effect on the reader is unease: this is not imaginative play but a trance-like compulsion.

Crucially, the writer links this compulsion to the family’s money creed. The maxim “better to be born lucky than rich” and the mother’s lineated mouth—“the lines of her mouth”—signal a hardened adult creed that the child internalises to “compel her attention.” Thus the danger is both material and emotional: a mercenary value system, plus maternal indifference, channels a child’s longing into frantic, unnatural behaviour.

Overall, I strongly agree: through bitter dialogue, obsessive repetition, and frenzied, uncanny imagery, the writer renders Paul’s “game” disturbing and shows the family’s money-obsession deforming a child’s play into something perilous.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that Paul’s play is unsettling rather than fun through the vivid description of him ‘charging madly into space’ in a ‘frenzy’ with a ‘strange glare’, while the girls ‘dared not speak’. It would also link this to the family’s unhealthy fixation by noting his secrecy and compulsion—‘seeking inwardly for luck’ and ‘He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it’—as evidence that the obsession is becoming dangerous and unnatural.

I strongly agree that Paul’s riding feels disturbing rather than playful, and that the family’s fixation on money makes his behaviour unnatural and potentially dangerous.

First, the writer seeds this danger through dialogue and tone. The mother speaks “bitterly,” and her aphoristic claim that it is “better to be born lucky than rich” equates “luck” with the cause of money. This semantic field of luck/money, reinforced by the child’s mishearing of “filthy lucre” as “filthy lucker,” shows how adult talk twists a moral idea into material obsession. The physical detail “the lines of her mouth” suggests concealed anxiety, which Paul reads; his urge “to compel her attention” implies a coercive, unhealthy pressure to satisfy her monetary ideal.

As the focus shifts from conversation to Paul’s inner quest, the writer intensifies the obsession structurally and linguistically. The triadic repetition “He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it” conveys mounting compulsion. Verbs like “seeking” and the noun “stealth” imply secrecy and fixation, not innocent play. The adverb “vaguely” captures how his childish reasoning is being warped by adult values he only half understands.

In the riding scene, violent imagery and hyperbole make the “game” unsettling. He is “charging madly into space,” a metaphor that suggests dissociation from reality, while “with a frenzy” and “wildly the horse careered” load the moment with danger. The adjective “strange” before “glare” marks his eyes as unnatural, and the reaction of others—“the little girls dared not speak”—is a structural cue to the reader that this is frightening, not fun. The juxtaposition of a “big rocking-horse” (a child’s toy) with such ferocity heightens the dissonance.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer uses dialogue, repetition, and unsettling imagery to show how the family’s money-obsession infiltrates Paul’s mind, turning play into compulsion. While his need for his mother’s attention fuels it, that very need has been reshaped by her creed that “luck” equals money, making the game disturbingly dangerous.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree: the writer shows an unhealthy obsession with luck/money through the repetition "He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it", and makes the play feel dangerous and unnatural by describing Paul "charging madly into space" with a "strange glare", so even the girls "dared not speak to him".

I mostly agree with the statement. When Paul rides with a “strange glare,” the game feels unsettling rather than playful, and the writer links this to the family’s talk about money and “luck” turning unhealthy.

At first, the dialogue with his mother shows how money dominates their thinking. She speaks “bitterly” and keeps repeating “luck” with “money” – “It’s what causes you to have money.” This makes money sound like the only measure. Paul’s timid questions show he is absorbing it. The repetition “He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it” shows obsession beginning, and “with a sort of stealth” suggests secrecy, which feels unnatural for a child.

When he gets on the rocking-horse, the language becomes more extreme. The verb “charging” and the adverbs “madly” and “wildly” make his play seem out of control. The noun “frenzy” and his “strange glare” create a disturbing image of a boy who can’t stop. The other children “peer at him uneasily” and “dared not speak,” so even they sense something is wrong. The image of riding “into space” works like a metaphor for leaving reality, which suggests danger.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer uses repetition, violent verbs and other children’s reactions to show the family’s obsession with luck and money has become dangerous and unnatural in Paul.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Level 1: simple agreement that the writer makes the game disturbing, shown by basic references like "strange glare", "charging madly into space", "with a frenzy", and the girls "dared not speak to him". May also note the repetition "He wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it" as a basic sign of an obsession with "luck" linked to money.

I agree that Paul’s riding is disturbing and that the family’s talk about money is dangerous for him. At the start of the section, the mother keeps linking “luck” with “money”, and she speaks “bitterly”. The repeated word “luck” and the confusion with “filthy lucre” show how the adults are fixed on money. Her “sudden laugh” that is “rather bitter” makes the mood cold, which hints at a bad influence on the child.

When Paul is on the rocking-horse, his behaviour does not seem fun. The writer uses strong verbs and adjectives like “charging madly”, “with a frenzy”, and his eyes had a “strange glare”. This word choice makes the game feel wild and frightening. The little girls “peer at him uneasily” and “dared not speak to him”, so even other children think it is wrong. There is a contrast between the girls “playing dolls” and Paul riding in this way, which sounds unnatural.

Also, the repetition “he wanted luck, he wanted it, he wanted it” shows his obsession growing. Overall, I agree with the statement, because the writer shows the family’s focus on money and “luck” has turned Paul’s play into something worrying and dangerous for a child.

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:

• Disturbing physical detail: Paul’s fixed stare makes the play feel manic rather than playful, so I strongly agree it’s disturbing (strange glare)
• Kinetic intensity: the violent, relentless movement paints dangerous compulsion rather than fun, heightening unease (charging madly into space)
• Obsessive repetition: the tricolon stresses a consuming drive for “luck,” aligning his play with a risky fixation on money (he wanted it)
• Secretive behaviour: his withdrawal signals unhealthy, covert purpose in the game, suggesting an unnatural preoccupation (went off by himself)
• Isolation from others: his absorption and disregard for people imply a blinkered, potentially harmful tunnel vision (taking no heed)
• External alarm: other children’s anxiety confirms the scene’s threat, reinforcing that the “game” feels unsafe (peer at him uneasily)
• Social cutoff: their silence shows his play repels normal interaction, a sign the obsession is becoming dangerous (dared not speak)
• Causal seed of obsession: the mother’s definition links luck to wealth, driving Paul’s perilous quest to win money-luck (what causes you to have money)
• Child–adult dissonance: a toy becomes a tool for financial “luck,” marking an unnatural adult burden placed on a child (big rocking-horse)
• Craving approval: his need to force notice connects monetary “luck” to emotional validation, intensifying the unhealthy pressure (compel her attention)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At a late-night open mic in the town hall, you will read a short piece about city life after dark.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a 24-hour phone repair stall in a shopping centre from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a misdirected delivery and the chain of events it starts.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

At two a.m., the kiosk glows like a small planet in the darkened concourse. The shopping centre sleeps in great shuttered breaths; only that neon rectangle refuses to blink. While You Wait hums above panes so clean they seem not there at all. A sweet, antiseptic thread—alcohol and lemon wipes—runs through the conditioned air; beneath it, a faint metal tang where solder has kissed a board. The counter is a shallow aquarium: cables like sea grass; SIM trays like silver fish; delicate phone skeletons drifting between compartments.

Tools lie in disciplined ranks: micro screwdrivers with flowered heads, precision tweezers, a loupe like a single, unblinking eye; pale spudgers, suction cups, syringes of adhesive. On a pad, glass splinters accumulate—frost, starlight, sugar. Every surface gleams, and yet grit hides in the corners; a glitter that bites if you slide a finger there.

Behind the glass, the technician moves with a watchmaker's patience: wrist steady, breath held. He wheels a lamp closer; the circle blooms, a private moon. Screws come out in a staccato sequence—one, two, three; pause; four, five. The phone opens like a book you should not read, pages ribboned with filaments as fine as hair. He peels a battery, coaxes a connector, warms adhesive until it relents. Unscrew, lift, sever; reseat, press, test; wipe, reassemble, restore. Who else keeps such hours, tending to tiny catastrophes?

By dawn, cleaners glide past in reflective vests, machines purring; the floor turns to satin again. The stall never entirely resets. It gathers the day: fingerprints ghosting the glass, a smear of blue from a case, a stray screw like a lost punctuation mark. Then the queue forms—students with spider-webbed screens, a parent clutching a talisman, a commuter pleading for a port that will charge by nine. English, Urdu, Polish spill into the same square of light; the technician’s hands translate.

Midday blares. Somewhere a perfume atomises; here, a pop as a screen releases, a sigh as a new one settles. The sign—We Fix Anything—flickers once (only once) and steadies. The till chirps; a payment pings; a thank-you lands with relief. A phone salvaged from a bath arrives in a zip-lock bag; another, dusted in rice; another that will not wake however politely he asks. Nevertheless, solutions proliferate: new glass, new gaskets, a solder bridge bright as mercury.

By evening, the light warms, gilt from shop fronts; by midnight, it retracts to Arctic clarity. The kiosk persists. A lighthouse for the lost, a confession booth for the clumsy, a surgery with no appointment. It is also just a stall, cheaper than the flagship store, with tape on one corner and a flyer that peels; there is a tiny crack in the neon. Even so, it keeps its promise. Twenty-four hours, the cycle clicks round—open, pry, mend, close—and begins again, again.

Option B:

Monday. The street uncurled like a ribbon from the river, and with it came a procession of brown boxes: taped, stamped, barcoded into obedience. Most travelled dutifully from van to doormat, making modest promises to impatient hands; a few, however, were capricious. They slipped off the intended path by a digit, a letter, a barely-there smudge, and—quietly, almost politely—rewrote a morning.

It started with a box no bigger than a loaf, paper scuffed, red string cinched tight. Malik, eyes grainy from the long route and the metronomic chirp of his scanner, squinted at the address as a cloud loosened its rain in a misty sigh. Numbers on the terrace were skew-whiff—painted decades apart, renewed by different hands—so that 11B and 11D sat like cousins who refused to sit together in the wedding photograph. He matched the brass 11B to the label, snapped his perfunctory photo, and left the parcel on a doormat that wasn’t expecting it; he did not see the way the curled tail of the letter D hid under the fraying knot.

Inside, Nora at 11B, who heard the world before she saw it, paused with her kettle in hand. The van’s diesel cough faded; the hallway clock hummed. A shadow on her frosted glass was enough to make her cat, Fig, raise his comet tail and slink towards the door. Nora wasn’t waiting for anything, not today, but she opened the door anyway and found the box breathing quietly in the drizzle as though it had walked there itself.

“Who sent you?” she asked, because some questions felt more ceremonial than curious. The paper smelled faintly of cedar; the ink on the address had bled at the edges, like a memory warming to itself. FRAGILE declared the sticker; under it, a second, smaller word: urgent. She could have marched it along the landing to 11D then and there, she could have knocked and clucked apologies and been done. Instead—because of the rain, because of her knees, because curiosity is merely hunger in its Sunday clothes—she set it on the kitchen table and went for the drawer with the good knife.

The string yielded with a satisfied sigh. Nestled within brown crinkle and tissue lay a velvet pouch, a folded square of cream paper, and a key on a ribbon like an antique punctuation mark. Nora’s fingers hovered. The handwriting on the note was slanted, elegant, in the kind of blue ink that stains long after it dries. For the Orpheum, it said. Do not delay.

“Orpheum,” she repeated, mouth testing the syllables. The old cinema on Green Lane—shuttered, dust-furred, its Art Deco sighing into flaked paint. The key winked, brass and expectant. Fig leapt onto the chair, nosed the ribbon, and, in one smooth, inevitable flourish, skated the key onto the floor where it chimed and rolled towards the hall. When Nora bent—too quickly for a woman with a winter ache—her elbow clipped the door; it shuddered open. Fig saw his chance. A grey streak; a soft thud; a gap; gone.

Consequently, the cyclist on the pavement braked hard to avoid the surprised cat and clipped Mr Levin’s takeaway coffee instead; a caramel arc mapped itself against a very white shirt. In the flustered apology, Mr Levin’s phone hopped out of his pocket and performed a small, theatrical dive into the gutter, where yesterday’s rain held it like a black fish. He would miss the call he’d been waiting on all week; he would turn back, damp and furious, and he would not be in the bank when the woman with the green scarf came to return a lost card.

Meanwhile, Nora, heart working like a trapped bird, took the first step outside in her slippers, the ribboned key still in her palm. “Fig!” Her voice, thin but insistent, threaded itself down the corridor and out into the brightness that followed the shower. Door wide, box half-unpacked, kettle cooling, rain stippling the red string—she had the strong, inconvenient sense that something had slipped and could not be placed back: not the cat, not the morning, not the single letter on the address that had tucked itself under a knot and vanished.

By evening, a photograph of the parcel—creased, candid, oddly beautiful—would appear on the neighbourhood forum with a cluster of question marks; by dusk, the lights over the Orpheum sign would blink, for the first time in years, like someone trying to get a sentence out. But for now, there was only a key warming in Nora’s hand, a street shivering off its rain, and a misdirected delivery nudging the day into a different shape altogether.

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

Option A:

The stall glows in the midnight atrium like a small aquarium: a glass cube of carefully contained light. Neon trims the counter—acid-blue, cherry-red—bleeding across lacquered tiles so even the shadows wear colour. Beyond it, the shopping centre sleeps on pause; escalators stilled; mannequins arrested mid-pose; the fountain muttering on a timer. Close to the glass, warmth gathers with a scent that is oddly domestic: hot plastic and citrus cleaner, solder metallic at the back of the throat, coffee left too long on a hotplate.

Inside, everything is miniature and meticulous. Drawers labelled with a tidy hand promise order: screws; gaskets; SIM trays; things too small for the ordinary day. A magnetic mat pins down flecks of silver. The technician leans over a felt pad with a headlamp that throws a halo on his knuckles; his movements are patient, almost reverent. He lifts a shattered screen—webbed like winter ice—and, with tweezers, coaxes out a shard, then another, again and again until the face beneath is bare.

Phones queue without complaint, black slabs in a row, each with its own secret urgency. Some are faint with low battery; some, flustered with notifications; some sit cracked and silent, as if ashamed. The stall gives them new names: water damage, battery transplant, data extraction. He lays out his ritual deliberately: heat; pry; unclip; lift; disconnect—pause—reconnect; press; reseal. Tiny clicks punctuate the work like punctuation in a careful sentence; a beeping multimeter answers in polite tones. For a moment, when a screen wakes, its face blooms with that sterile, perfect light, and it is ridiculous how relieving it feels.

They come at hours when stories fray. A night-shift nurse arrives, hands antiseptic and apologetic; her phone fell into a sink, she says, and she cannot be unreachable. A courier, heavy with tomorrow’s parcels, waits by the barrier; his map freezes and, briefly, so does his income. A teenager—cap low, bravado thinner in the neon—asks about a cracked camera lens. He listens, quotes a price, does not overpromise.

Between customers, silence pools. The centre hums at one pitch, the air-conditioning’s breath as regular as sleep. By the time the first bakery stirs and the shutters tremble open, a tray holds casualties—spiderwebbed glass glittering like frost, bent frames, bloated batteries with warnings in many languages. He labels, stacks, wipes the counter until it squeaks. Another phone powers up, stutters, then steadies. There is no applause—only the soft thud of a stamp, the murmur of thanks. The neon hums on, tireless.

Option B:

The parcel arrived on Tuesday with the sort of confidence only an inanimate object can muster: brown, oblong, taped with decisive strokes, its barcode winking as the scanner chirped. Number 41 Marlowe Road wore peeling paint like a tired smile, yet the label said, quite clearly, 14. Two errant digits had been inverted—so small, so consequential. The man in hi-vis missed it because his earbud was narrating traffic. He set the box on the step as if finishing a puzzle; the first domino had just been stood upright.

Inside, Noor wrestled her arm into a sleeve while toast cooled and the kettle sighed. She was due at the council archives by nine; the word “probation” looped around her mind. The knock—polite, then impatient—jarred her morning. She opened to the parcel and the courier already retreating. “Sign here,” he said. She signed. Only then did she read the address: 14, not 41. E. Hart, it declared. She thought, I’ll drop it round on my way to the bus.

She tucked the box under one arm—heavier than it looked, faintly medicinal—and pulled the door behind her. The latch clicked, final. Her keys, obedient on the dish, sat three feet away, gleaming, unreachable. For a heartbeat she stared through the letterbox at her life. Mrs Dean’s cat threaded round her ankles and she nearly tripped. Across the pavement a boy on a bike swerved to avoid the cat; his rucksack jolted; out popped a glass jar of honey. It broke with soft music; amber spread, catching sky and grit.

A postman—late, breathless—stepped into the sweet slick and flailed; letters fanned like startled birds. A bus braked; coffee leapt; a man in a navy suit looked at his stained tie and swore. His phone vibrated: Mr Hart, your delivery is on its way.

Meanwhile, Noor fed her arm through the letterbox, futilely; the brass rasped her sleeve. She slid the parcel onto the low wall to fetch help, and a gust lifted the label so it peeled up like a tongue. The cyclist, sticky with honey, shouted at Mrs Dean; the baby next door woke; the painter on his ladder glanced away and left a white crescent on 39’s window.

By lunchtime, a photograph of the parcel (cropped, accusing) would sit on the neighbourhood page: Does anyone know Noor at 41? By evening, a locksmith, a painter and an apologetic bus driver would have their versions. But that brisk Tuesday gave her only this: the abrasive weight of cardboard, the floral sweetness of honey, and the cold certainty that a misdirected box had rearranged her day—and perhaps more than that.

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

Option A:

The kiosk glows like a small aquarium in the wide, white light of the shopping centre. A low square of plastic and chrome - open on one side and boxed on three - offers rescue. Above it, an electric sign says OPEN 24 HOURS - blue letters that buzz, then settle, then buzz again. The counter is scratched and clean at once, rubbed by a hundred worried thumbs. Around it, footsteps ribbon past; trainers squeak, prams click, voices spill. 'We fix while you wait,' the laminated strip declares; the waiting becomes a rhythm: in, handover, hover, out.

By midday the stall is a tiny theatre. A technician in a graphite apron loops an anti-static strap round his wrist; his hands are steady, his eyes slightly reddened. Under a magnifying lamp, a cracked screen shivers like ice. He warms the glue with a hush of heat, lifts, coaxes; the suction cup pops. Trays carry a taxonomy: home buttons, lenses, SIM pins, screws (Phillips, tri-wing, the one you always lose). The air smells oddly clean - alcohol, warm solder, the faint sweetness of coffee. Click-click go the drivers; a fleck of glass glitters; the fan draws away a silver wisp.

Meanwhile, customers orbit: a boy with a spiderweb corner; a courier with rain-swollen buttons; a parent insisting it's 'just a scratch'. Prices are taped in tidy rows; cables coil like tame snakes. The technician speaks softly: thirty minutes, maybe forty-five. By dusk the centre thins; by midnight it hollows. The cinema breathes out its last crowd; cleaners drift past with slow machines that purr. The kiosk does not blink; it keeps its own, patient time.

The sign says OPEN all night, it believes it. At two a.m. a security guard buys a cable; a student brings a phone rescued from a sink. The light is cooler; the floor a pale mirror; the stall an island, blue and steady, like a lighthouse on tiles. And then morning sidles back. Escalators wake; shutters rattle. On the counter, revived rectangles gleam: smooth glass, no fractures. The aquarium glow remains. It hums; it waits; it mends, again and again, screw by shining screw.

Option B:

Rain needled the cul-de-sac and made the morning smell of wet cardboard and cold metal. The van coughed to a stop, the driver glanced once—twice—at his screen, and dropped a square, brown parcel on my step. Photo taken, engine burred; he was gone. The label glistened under beads of drizzle, its black letters slightly blurred as if the name were trying to correct itself.

Not my door. Not my name.

“Dr I. Crane,” it read, “Flat 4B, Ashfield Court.” I lived at 14 Ashfield Road; the block was directly opposite, its glass lobby blinking like a sleepy eye. I should have left it and gone back to my tea, I know I should, but the box felt heavier than it looked and something about the careful, almost anxious handwriting tugged at me.

“Wait!” I called, too late for the tail-lights that dissolved into the rain. So I slid on my shoes, tucked the parcel under one arm, and crossed the road. The tape had puckered at one corner—like a scab wanting to be picked—and a faint citrus-clean smell escaped, oddly clean. What harm could it do to carry it over?

The gate at Ashfield Court stuck as usual. I balanced the parcel against my hip and pressed the buzzer with my elbow. The intercom crackled, beeped; then the button caught. A long, stubborn sound poured out—bzzzzzz—like a trapped wasp. Before I could move, our neighbour Ms Brookes appeared under a coat that was more umbrella than coat.

“Another delivery?” she said, peering. “They’re forever mixing things up.”

“That’s the problem,” I muttered, jiggling the button. The parcel slid, I caught it, and a narrow white envelope slid free from a gap, skated off the damp plastic, and dived like a startled fish into a puddle. FRAGILE bled into FR—G—LE.

A spaniel—whose name is, ironically, Trouble—sprang for it. I stooped, Trouble lunged, the lead yanked, and Ms Brookes pinwheeled slightly. I stepped back; a cyclist hissed past, braked hard to avoid my heel, and clipped the row of blue bins. Bottles chattered, then clattered. Somewhere above us, a window snapped open and someone shouted, “Do you mind!”

Meanwhile, the intercom kept buzzing. A resident, convinced it was someone stranded, buzzed the door open and propped it with a plant pot. The lobby cat (a sleek, disapproving shadow) seized its chance and slipped out. Trouble saw the cat. Trouble gave chase. Ms Brookes gave a small scream. The cyclist swore. I hugged the parcel tighter, heart thudding, rain finding the neckline of my jumper.

By the time I rescued the envelope—pulped now, useless—the chemist across the road had come to his door to see about the racket. A bus driver, watching the dog and the cat weave under his stop, leaned on his horn for longer than necessary. In flat 4B, someone finally picked up the intercom and begged me to stop whatever I was doing to their door.

I’d only meant to return a box. Instead, with one misdirected delivery and a careless button, our quiet street started to unspool.

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

Option A:

Under the shopping centre's pale ceiling, the 24-hour phone repair stall glows like an aquarium. It is a glass box on polished tiles, no walls, only a counter. Open All Hours hums in blue neon, staining the floor. Inside, coiled wires sleep like snakes, screws wink in trays, and a bottle of clear liquid leans. The air tastes of solder and coffee.

A man in a grey hoodie stands in the booth, eyes under a magnifying visor. He holds a cracked phone the way a nurse might hold a wrist: careful, listening. He eases the back open with a black tool, and the phone sighs. On the heat mat the tiny parts line up: battery, plates, a board. He moves quickly, then slower; wipes, screws, tests. He hardly speaks, only almost there or give me a minute, and the receipt printer chirps.

At midday the stall is different. People crowd the rail, despairing: their lives are balanced on those small slabs. A courier taps his foot; a mother scrolls on a spare device; a teenager stares at a shattered, stickered case. The windows blur with fingerprints. Outside, the escalator sighs; a bakery sends butter into the air; announcements drip from the ceiling. Prices sit in neat rows — tempered glass, battery replacement, water damage — printed on glossy cards and taped at the corners, already curling.

But night pulls the mall thin, and the stall brightens. Cleaners roll past, wheels squeaking; the security guard nods. A single phone buzzes in its tray, then sleeps. The technician rubs his eyes and carries on. This place is a tiny hospital for cracked glass, a lighthouse for dropped calls. It stitches hours together with wires and patience. By morning, when shutters clatter and the first bus sighs, the repaired screens will open like small windows, ordinary and new.

Option B:

If the driver had checked the label, maybe none of it would have happened. It was a thin Tuesday, the kind where rain stitched the street into a grey sheet and the van’s engine coughed and grumbled away before I’d even reached the door. A small box sat on the mat like a patient cat, neat and brown with a single strip of tape. It looked harmless, like a shoebox of letters, I told myself it could wait.

Steam rose from my mug; damp crept from the parcel as if the cardboard could breathe. The name wasn’t mine. Mrs P. Patel. The address wasn’t mine either: 24a Marsh Lane. I live at 42. For a moment I held it in both hands and hesitated, weighing not just the box but the nuisance of it. I could leave it and pretend I hadn’t seen. I could email the courier. Instead, with my keys between my fingers and the parcel tucked under my arm like a loaf, I stepped back into the drizzle.

The street had that wet-wool smell after a steady soak. Buses hissed; cyclists flicked past with glowing jackets. A boy’s football skidded out, nudged my ankle and tilted the parcel. “Sorry!” he shouted, already gone. On Marsh Lane, house numbers darted and doubled—24, 24b, 24a—with doors painted in hopeful colours. A terrier yapped behind a gate, small paws beating like a drum. I knocked at 24a and listened. Nothing. Only the rain ticking on the letterbox and the faint buzz of a television next door.

As I turned to leave a cat slid through a gap in the hedge—striped, sly, determined—and brushed my legs. I startled; the parcel slipped; the sharp corner grazed the wall and the tape frayed. Something inside gave a dull clink. At the same moment a note on the door stirred and caught my eye: Back in five minutes. Please don’t leave parcels unattended.

I should have waited, I think that now. But the cat streaked off like a comet and a tiny silver key winked from the tear. That was when everything began to move, one small choice knocking into another, like dominoes tipped by a careless hand.

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

Option A:

The stall glows in the middle of the shopping centre like a small glass lighthouse. A neon strip hums over the counter, painting everything a pale blue. Inside, trays are lined with screws the size of crumbs, wires, and thin tools: tweezers, pry tools, a tiny driver clicking like a beetle. Cracked screens wait their turn, webbed white like winter ice. The air smells of disinfectant and warm plastic; the hum of vents never stops. A sign promises: Repair While You Wait.

Behind the till, a man in a hoodie rubs his eyes, then bends to the patient phone. His hands are careful, like he’s fixing a watch; his face is marked by the glow of the lamp. He murmurs to customers without looking up. "Give me twenty minutes." People hover, checking their watches, a woman with red nails taps. A boy brings a phone dropped in a sink. The stall is small but busy, louder when footsteps flow around it and the tannoy lets out tinny announcements.

At midnight the mall is different. Shutters are pulled down like eyelids and the floor machines whine in slow circles; the stall stays awake. It is always open; it has to be. Neon buzzes; coffee goes cold beside receipts. Phones look strange in the dark, little black fishes flashing when he tests them. By dawn the lights seem softer, the finished phones stacked in labelled trays. He yawns—glue leaves a faint smell on his fingers. The first customer steps forward, holding a phone like a hurt bird.

Option B:

Monday. The street blinked awake; last night's rain sat in little mirrors along the kerb. A white van sighed to a stop outside number 17 and a box landed with a soft, heavy thud. Leah watched from the hallway, socks on cold tiles, as the driver scribbled and hurried off. The parcel leaned like a sleepy cat. FRAGILE, the tape warned. Not theirs—the label, crinkled and damp, read Mr P. Rook, 19 Broom Lane.

"Mum?" Leah called, but the kettle drowned her.

Two doors down wasn't far. How hard could it be to help? She opened the door and lifted the parcel; it was small but somehow weighty. The tape squeaked. As she shuffled out, Mrs Patel's bulldog, Diesel, slipped through the gate and went straight for the box. He barked, he bounced, he bumped her knee. Leah fought to keep hold—she didn't mean to—she really didn't. The corner hit the post; the cardboard sighed and something tidy untied itself.

Beads, hundreds, tiny and silver, skittered down the steps like quick rain.

A cyclist turned into the street at the exact wrong moment. His tyre met the beads; the wheel slithered, he grabbed a lamppost and toppled a pyramid of oranges. They rolled in a bright, wobbling river. A bus braked, horns flared, someone shouted. Leah's cheeks burned. The torn label uncurled in the gutter, frowning.

It was only a misdirected delivery. It was only Monday. But everything had already started.

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

Option A:

Midday, the 24-hour phone repair stall glows in the centre like a glass fish tank. A flourescent strip flickers above; its neon sign hums, OPEN, OPEN. Inside, cables curl like noodles and tiny screws sprinkle the counter. The man with a magnifying lamp bends low, hands steady. Broken screens lie flat like patients. There is the smell of warm plastic and coffee, a faint tang of solder. People hover, clutching cracked phones and small hopes.

Midnight is different. The mall grows hushed; the kiosk still hums. A young woman in a hoodie yawns, then steadies her hands as the iron sizzles. Blue smoke twists up, a thin ribbon, and the sweet-chemical smell bites. The security guard strolls by and nods. Somewhere a cleaner’s machine drones, drones. A teenage boy waits, staring at the lit screen that says Restart, Restore, Repair. Time slows, and the glass shines like water.

By morning, tired eyes are replaced with fresh ones. New boxes arrive; clear tape snaps; the pile of cracked glass gleams like frost. Shutters lift across the centre and chatter comes back in waves. The stall does not change. It waits, a small island of light, fixing what people drop, lose, smash, again and again.

Option B:

Three quick knocks cracked the quiet of our hallway. A brown box sat like a lone brick on the step. By the time I reached it, the van was gone. The label was smudged, but I could make out a name that wasn't ours and an address: 41 Brookside.

I stood there, barefoot on the cold tiles, thinking. Leave it? Wait? How hard could it be to take it up the road? I tucked the box under my arm and stepped outside. Wrong house – clearly. Right idea, I thought.

First problem: Mrs Khan's gate. As I pushed through, her dog shot out like a cork. Biscuit zigzagged away, yapping at a cat. I ran after him, the package bumping against my hip.

Then everything went wrong. A cyclist swerved to miss the dog and clipped my elbow, the box slipped and the delivery note fluttered away like a pale leaf. I grabbed for it, but a bus whooshed by and spun it into the gutter. Someone shouted. The van driver was reversing back up the street now, and I realised this was only the start. Behind me, our front door clicked shut. I hadn't taken my keys.

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

Option A:

The stall sits in the middle of the shopping centre like a small fish tank, glass on all sides and bright neon saying PHONE REPAIR OPEN 24 HOURS

Inside there is trays of tiny screws and cracked screens. A man with tired eyes bends over a phone, he breathes out and the glass fogs. Tools go click click, a little buzz from a machine. It smells like cleaning spray and warm plastic.

In the day people rush past, mums and kids, everyone asking is it fixed yet, how long, how much. At night there is only the security guard and the cleaner. The sign still blinks and blinks and the phones lay there like sleeping fish.

Sometimes somebody comes at 3am with a smashed screen and a shaky voice. He says please. Open all night, open all day, backwards and forwards, waiting

Option B:

The box sat on our step like a brick. The man in orange had already gone. The label said Mr Khan, 24 Birch Street, but our adress is 42. It wasn’t ours.

Mum said dont touch it. I should of left it. But the tape was loose, so I peeked. Inside was a little clock, ticking loud like a heart.

When I opened the door to take it back, Milo shot out. He ran to the road and a bike swerved, the wheel hit a bin, the bin tipped over, glass crashed and rolled down the hill. A car braked and beeped, a man shouted. I ran with the box - too fast - and slipped on wet leafs.

The clock fell. It cracked. Tick tick stopped. The siren from the shop up the corner started and Mrs Green screamed, and my bus went by without me. All because of a wrong box.

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

Option A:

The stall is small and bright, it sits in the middle of the shopping centre like a box. Neon signs glow blue and pink, they buzz a bit and flicker. There is glass and tape and little screws on the counter. The man wears a black coat, he bends over the cracked phones, he breathes slow. its open all day and all night, the clock says 2:17, the floor is shinny and cold. I hear a drill and a click, again and again. A woman waits with her bag, she looks bored. I smell chips from the food place, it makes me hungry.

Option B:

The box came to the wrong door, wrong day, it had my flat number but not my name. I looked at it and it looked back at me like a problem. The man in the van was gone, he didnt wait. Mum said just leave it so I left it by the bin, it was raining. Then the wind pushed it and it fell, bang! the dog next door went mad. Mrs Khan slipped on the wet steps and shouted I picked it up, my phone dropped, I missed my bus. A siren wailed I seen stamps inside and a note.