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 did the man look at several times?: the man's leg and the narrator – 1 mark
• 1.2 What does the man do to the narrator after moving closer to the narrator's tombstone?: Takes the narrator by both arms and tilts the narrator back as far as the man can hold – 1 mark
• 1.3 What did the man take the narrator by?: both arms – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which way did the narrator's eyes look?: most helplessly up into the man's eyes – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 “Now lookee here,” he said, “the question being whether you’re to be let to live. You know what a file is?” “Yes, sir.”

11 “And you know what wittles is?” “Yes, sir.” After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a

How does the writer use language here to build a threatening mood and show the narrator’s helplessness? 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 perceptively explains how the dialectal imperative "Now lookee here" and the relentless interrogatives ("You know what a file is?", "And you know what wittles is?"), reinforced by the chilling euphemism "whether you’re to be let to live", create a menacing tone, while the deferential repetition "Yes, sir" and the incremental physical coercion of "he tilted me over a little more" reveal the narrator’s powerlessness.

The writer immediately establishes menace through imperative and dialect. The command “Now lookee here” uses a brusque imperative (“look”) cloaked in non‑standard lexis (“lookee”), signalling the speaker’s rough idiolect and unpredictability. More chilling is the euphemistic, passive construction “the question being whether you’re to be let to live.” The formal periphrasis (“the question being”) gives the threat a cold, judicial tone, while the passive “to be let to live” strips the narrator of agency and implies the man’s power over life and death, building a threatening mood.

Furthermore, the sequence of interrogatives—“You know what a file is?” and “And you know what wittles is?”—functions less to elicit information than to enforce compliance. The anaphoric repetition of “You know…” combined with the adjacency pair “Yes, sir.” “Yes, sir.” creates a staccato rhythm that heightens tension. The repeated honorific “sir” is painfully ironic: the child’s deferential, monosyllabic replies foreground his fear and social powerlessness, accentuating his helplessness in the face of coercion.

Additionally, the shift from verbal threat to physical control intensifies the danger: “After each question he tilted me over a little more.” The dynamic verb “tilted” and the incremental phrase “a little more” suggest a systematic, escalating dominance. The purpose clause “so as to give me a…” (with its deliberate, methodical phrasing) frames the man’s actions as calculated intimidation rather than impulse. Stylistically, the move from short, clipped dialogue to a more complex sentence mirrors the tightening grip, so the reader feels the narrator’s loss of balance—literal and figurative—thereby deepening the threatening mood and underscoring his helplessness.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A threatening mood is built through the imperative, dialectal address "Now lookee here" and the explicit menace "let to live", while the repeated short interrogatives "You know what a file is?" and coarse "wittles" pressure the narrator and show the speaker’s control. Physical dominance in "tilted me over", the insistent "you", and the Q&A sentence pattern emphasise the narrator’s helplessness as each question increases his vulnerability.

The writer uses an imperative with colloquial dialect to create menace from the outset: “Now lookee here” sounds rough and commanding, establishing control. The passive construction “the question being whether you’re to be let to live” is chilling; by phrasing life as something to be “let,” the speaker implies he has the power to permit or deny it, which builds a threatening mood. The direct address “you’re” makes the threat personal.

Furthermore, the repeated interrogatives, “You know what a file is?” and “And you know what wittles is?”, create a staccato, interrogational rhythm. These short questions, followed by the submissive replies “Yes, sir,” show a clear power imbalance. The honorific “sir” reveals the narrator’s politeness and fear, signalling his helplessness as he complies with every demand.

Additionally, the dynamic verb in “he tilted me over” shows physical dominance, while the incremental phrase “a little more” suggests the threat intensifies with each question. The fronted adverbial “After each question” emphasises the relentless, repeated nature of the coercion. Through imperative command, menacing phrasing, and a Q-and-A structure that tightens like an interrogation, the writer builds a tense, threatening atmosphere and presents the narrator as powerless under the man’s control.

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 might say the writer creates a threatening mood with the commanding dialect "Now lookee here" and the life-or-death phrase "let to live", while the repeated short questions "You know what a file is?" and "You know what wittles is?" build pressure and intimidation. The narrator’s helplessness is shown by his submissive repetition "Yes, sir" and the physical control in "tilted me over a little more", suggesting the man’s power over him.

The writer uses direct speech and dialect to create threat. The command "Now lookee here" and the phrase "let to live" sound rough and show the man controls whether the boy lives.

Moreover, the repeated interrogatives "You know what a file is?" and "what wittles is?" make it feel like an interrogation, building tension. The short, repeated reply "Yes, sir." shows the narrator’s fear and helplessness because he only agrees.

Furthermore, the verb choice "he tilted me over a little more" shows physical power, as if the boy is an object. Additionally, the pronouns "he" and "me" and the short sentences speed the pace and add pressure. Therefore, the language builds a threatening mood and highlights the narrator’s lack of power.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 1 response identifies threatening words and short questions like 'let to live' and 'You know what a file is?'/'You know what wittles is?' to create a threatening mood. It notes the repetition of 'Yes, sir' and the action 'tilted me over' to show the narrator is scared and helpless.

The writer uses imperatives and threats to build a threatening mood. The command "Now lookee here" and the phrase "whether you're to be let to live" sound scary and make danger clear. Moreover, the writer uses short questions: "You know what a file is?" and "what wittles is?" These questions create pressure. Furthermore, the repeated reply "Yes, sir" shows the narrator is helpless and polite. Additionally, the verb "tilted" and "a little more" show physical control over him, making him weak.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Commanding colloquial address sets coercive tone; the speaker dictates terms, creating immediate threat (Now lookee here).
• Life‑or‑death conditional frames the stakes; the narrator’s survival is at the speaker’s mercy, intensifying fear (be let to live).
• Second‑person focus targets the narrator; repeated direct address isolates and pressures him (You know).
• Rapid interrogatives create an interrogational mood; questions function like threats rather than genuine inquiries (You know what a file is?).
• Parallel repetition of the question pattern builds relentless pressure; the rhythm of insistence feels inescapable (You know what wittles is?).
• Brief, deferential replies signal submission; politeness under duress exposes his powerlessness (Yes, sir.).
• Physical manipulation shows dominance; the speaker controls his body, heightening vulnerability (tilted me over).
• Incremental phrasing suggests escalating menace; each small increase adds to his instability (a little more).
• Structural sequencing links language to threat; intimidation accompanies each question, showing methodical control (After each question).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace escalating menace through patterned repetition and pacing, showing how the coercive Q&A and the refrain "He tilted me again" incrementally intensify Pip’s helplessness to a gruesome climax in "your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted, and ate." It would then analyse the structural widening from immediate threat to pervasive dread—via the sudden, unseen "young man" and anaphoric listing ("A boy may lock his door...")—before the shift from dialogue to gothic narration ("eluding the hands of the dead people", the man still "hugging himself in both arms") sustains menace even as the attacker recedes.

One way the writer structures menace is by beginning in medias res with oppressive proximity. The scene opens with his eyes “down into mine” and mine “helplessly up”, fixing a vertical power dynamic. Brief interrogatives—“You know what a file is?”—are intercut with incremental repetition, “He tilted me again”, so the anaphora ratchets the pace and the peril with each tilt. Sustained first‑person focalisation (“my tombstone”; “I clung to him”) locks the reader inside the boy’s helpless viewpoint.

In addition, the structure pivots from clipped Q&A to an extended menace‑monologue, changing the scale of the threat. Parallel conditional syntax—“You do it... you shall be let to live. You fail...”—imposes judicial finality, while the proleptic time marker “to‑morrow morning early” projects danger beyond the scene. The anaphoric refrain “That young man...” widens focus into bedrooms and doorways, recasting menace as omnipresent; the boy appears unsafe anywhere, not only in the churchyard.

A further structural choice is the modulated denouement, where menace lingers as the focus widens. A long, tracking sentence follows the man away, slowing narrative pace and prolonging unease. Acts of looking recur—he “turned... to look for me”; “I looked over my shoulder”—echoing the opening stare to create a cyclical surveillance motif. Simultaneously the lens shifts to marshes, graves and river, so tone moves from overt coercion to eerie, environmental menace that remains unresolved.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would typically identify that menace intensifies through cumulative repetition and sequencing: each imperative (You get me a file, You get me wittles, You bring ’em both to me) is followed by tilted me again, escalating the boy’s helplessness into visceral threat (heart and liver, tore out, roasted, and ate) and widening it with the unseen young man. It would also note the structural shift from rapid dialogue to slower descriptive focus, so the menace lingers as the man leaves—still hugging himself—and the setting becomes threatening (the hands of the dead people), ending on looked over my shoulder to keep the danger unresolved.

One way the writer structures menace is by opening in medias res with intense physical action. Rapid turn‑taking and repetition build a threatening rhythm: after each demand the refrain “He tilted me again” accelerates the pace and fixates on the power imbalance. The brief Q&A (“You know what a file is?” “Yes, sir.”) becomes an interrogation that escalates to the gruesome “heart and liver” threat.

In addition, a clear shift in focus extends the threat from the visible attacker to an unseen accomplice. Introducing “that young man” widens danger, while the cumulative listing (“A boy may lock his door… may tuck himself up…”) systematically closes off safety. The temporal marker “to‑morrow morning early” projects menace into the future, so it lingers beyond this scene.

A further structural choice is the change in focus to setting as the man departs. The narrative tracks him across the “cold wet flat,” slowing the pace, then zooms out to the churchyard and marshes yet stays in a first‑person focus through the child; his vision of the dead “stretching up” sustains an eerie tone. The final backward glance—“I looked over my shoulder”—leaves an open ending, keeping menace alive.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Menace builds from the start through repetition and short commands, like "He tilted me again" and "You get me a file", which make the boy seem more helpless. Then a long threat with "your heart and your liver shall be tore out" and a shift to eerie description as he leaves ("the hands of the dead people") keep the threatening mood to the end.

One way the writer structures the beginning to create menace is by starting with immediate action. The man “took me by both arms” and “tilted me,” and the repetition “He tilted me again” makes the threat build each time. Short, direct commands (“You get me a file… You bring ’em”) speed up the pace and make the boy feel helpless.

In addition, in the middle the focus stays on the man’s dialogue. It piles on threats about the “young man” who will “creep and creep,” listing places a boy might hide. The time reference “to-morrow morning early” adds pressure and increases danger.

A further structural feature is the shift in focus at the end to the setting. The graves and “hands of the dead people” keep the menacing mood, and the narrator “looked over [his] shoulder,” so the fear continues.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer repeats actions and commands like 'tilted me again' and 'you get me', then moves into a long warning about the 'young man' who will 'creep and creep', and ends with eerie setting details like 'hands of the dead people', which creates a simple sense of menace.

One way the writer structures menace is by starting with the boy being tilted and short, repeated commands. Repetition of 'He tilted me again' and questions makes the danger feel close.

In addition, the focus shifts to a long warning about the 'young man'. This list of threats, like 'heart and liver' and 'creep and creep', increases menace and worries the reader.

A further structural feature is the ending. The man leaves and the setting moves to the marsh and graves, but the boy looks back. This keeps the tone dark and shows the menace remains.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Immediate physical dominance at the opening creates an instant power imbalance and threat (tilted me back)
• Repetitive staging after each question forms a patterned escalation that tightens fear (He tilted me again)
• Imperative, cumulative Q&A commands build control and pressure through accretion (You get me)
• Shift from clipped exchanges to an extended warning broadens the threat beyond the moment (that young man)
• Conditional terms and a coerced oath frame the danger around deadlines and consequences (Lord strike you dead)
• The narrator’s fearful interruption breaks the pattern to foreground vulnerability and peril (I was dreadfully frightened)
• A physical crescendo then brief reset sustains tension by surging and pausing the menace (most tremendous dip)
• The exit phase is tracked in detail, prolonging unease as the threat lingers in movement and space (hugged his shuddering body)
• Macabre setting-detail reframes the landscape as predatory, keeping danger ambient (hands of the dead people)
• A final backward look implies ongoing surveillance and unresolved risk beyond the encounter (looked over my shoulder)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 16 to the end.

In this part of the source, where the convict hugs his own shivering body as he leaves, he seems weak and pathetic. The writer suggests that underneath all the threats, he is actually a frightened and desperate man.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the convict
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the convict's desperation
• 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 while recognising complexity, showing how the writer sustains menace through violent hyperbole and invention—“I’ll have your heart and liver out”; the accomplice who will “creep and creep his way to him and tear him open”—but then undermines it with vulnerable, gothic imagery as he “hugged his shuddering body,” “limped” on “legs were numbed and stiff,” seeming “eluding the hands of the dead people.” It would evaluate how these methods (imperatives, repetition, hyperbole, simile/personification) shift readers from fear to pity, concluding he is frightened and desperate despite the residual threat.

I largely agree that, beneath the bluster, the convict is revealed as a frightened and desperate man; however, Dickens’s presentation invites pity rather than mere contempt, so “pathetic” feels too reductive. The extract carefully shifts from menace to pathos, using structure, body-language imagery and setting to peel back his threats and expose vulnerability.

At first, Dickens constructs a performance of intimidation through imperative and threat. The anaphoric commands ‘You get me a file… And you get me wittles… You bring ’em…’ and the modal ultimatum ‘you shall be let to live’ create a coercive rhythm, while the grotesque hyperbole ‘your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted, and ate’ heightens the boy’s terror. Even the physicality—‘He tilted me again’, culminating in ‘a most tremendous dip and roll’—positions the convict as domineering. Yet the invention of the “young man… in comparison with which young man I am a Angel,” with his ‘pecooliar… secret way’ of creeping into a boy’s bed, reads as manipulative bluff. The very need to conjure a shadowy accomplice implies he is, in fact, alone; the inflated threats mask insecurity rather than confirm real power.

The tonal pivot comes as he leaves. Body-language imagery undermines the earlier bravado: he ‘hugged his shuddering body… clasping himself, as if to hold himself together.’ That simile does double duty, suggesting not only cold but a self on the verge of coming apart. Verbs such as ‘limped’ and adjectives like ‘numbed and stiff’ foreground bodily frailty, while the pathetic fallacy of the ‘cold wet flat’ externalises his misery and fear. His exclamative wish—‘I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!’—is a comic flicker of zoomorphism that, paradoxically, accentuates desperation: he longs to become a creature adapted to the marsh, to evade capture and the elements. The setting closes in: he ‘picking his way among the nettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds’ evokes entrapment. Through Pip’s perspective—‘in my young eyes’—the personification of the graves as ‘the hands of the dead people… pull him in’ casts the convict as a hunted figure, eluding not just the law but death itself. The repeated ‘still hugging himself’ seals the impression of sustained fear.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. Structurally, Dickens juxtaposes bombastic threats with images of physical and emotional fragility to suggest that the convict’s menace is a desperate façade. While his coercion is real for the child, the enduring impression is of a man weakened by cold, injury and fear—less monstrous than pitiably human.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, clearly explaining that Dickens uses simile and imagery to present the convict as vulnerable—e.g. "hugged his shuddering body", "limped", and "like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff", even wishing escape in "I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!". It would also note the contrast with his violent threats—"your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted, and ate" and the invented menace of "that young man"—arguing these act as a front, while the graveyard image "as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people" reinforces his fear and desperation.

I mostly agree with the statement. Although the convict’s speech is full of menace, Dickens strips away that bravado to show a man cold, hungry and anxious. By the time he “hugs his shuddering body” and “limped” away, he seems weak and, to Pip, almost pathetic.

At first he appears powerful through imperatives and repetition: “You get me a file… you get me wittles… You bring the lot,” punctuated by “He tilted me again.” This pattern makes the threat relentless, while the hyperbole “your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted, and ate” is calculated to terrify. Yet what he demands—“a file” and “wittles”—shows he needs escape and food. His dialect (“wittles,” “wery”) and the forced oath “Say Lord strike you dead if you don’t!” hint at fear that the boy might betray him. The invented “young man hid with me” also shows insecurity; he must bolster his menace with a lie.

Structurally, Dickens shifts from direct threats to a vulnerable departure. “Hugged his shuddering body… as if to hold himself together” indicates fragility, and “like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff” foregrounds bodily weakness. The bleak setting (“the cold wet flat”) works as pathetic fallacy, and his wish “I was a frog. Or a eel!” uses animal imagery to show a desire to slip away and be safe. He keeps “glancing about him,” “picking his way among the nettles” and “brambles,” implying caution and pain. To Pip he even looks as if he is “eluding the hands of the dead,” suggesting a man who feels pursued.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Dickens contrasts loud threats with a shivering, limping retreat, revealing a frightened and desperate man beneath the performance, though still dangerous.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree, pointing to words like "hugged his shuddering body", "limped", and the simile "like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff" to say the convict seems weak, cold and scared, with the setting ("cold wet flat", "sore feet") adding to his desperation. It would also note the contrast with his threats, such as "your heart and your liver shall be tore out", to suggest the writer shows he talks tough but is actually frightened.

I mostly agree with the statement. Although the convict threatens the boy, the writer also shows him as cold, injured and scared, especially when he leaves and “hugged his shuddering body.”

At first he appears strong and dangerous. The repeated imperatives, “You get me a file… And you get me wittles… You bring ’em,” and the gruesome threat to take Pip’s “heart and liver” show he will say anything to get what he wants. The repetition of “He tilted me again” and the “tremendous dip and roll” also present physical power. The invented “young man” who will “softly creep and creep” is a scare tactic. These methods suggest desperation: he needs food and a file quickly, so he uses hyperbole and fear to force the boy to help him.

At the end, when he goes away, the focus shifts from threats to his painful exit, making him look weak and pathetic. The verbs “hugged” and “limped,” and the adjective “shuddering,” show he is suffering. The simile “like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff” and “sore feet” emphasise his pain and exhaustion. The setting adds to this. On the “cold wet flat,” he picks his way “among the nettles” and “great stones,” which makes him seem vulnerable.

Pip’s viewpoint also matters. The image of the graves’ “hands of the dead people” is personification seen “in my young eyes,” suggesting the convict seems haunted and frightened.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: beneath his loud threats, the writer presents a man who is freezing, wounded and desperate to escape, though he still has some power to frighten a child.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree that he seems scared and weak: he hugged his shuddering body, limped, and moved like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff. He even says I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!, and is still hugging himself in both arms and picking his way, which shows he is desperate.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first the convict seems strong and dangerous, but by the end he looks weak and desperate.

At the start of the section, the writer uses commands and threats to make him scary. He says, 'You bring me... that file and them wittles,' which is an imperative, and he repeats it. The violent threat about Pip's 'heart and liver... tore out, roasted, and ate' makes him sound powerful. The repeated line 'He tilted me again' also shows control.

When he leaves, the language changes to make him seem pathetic. The verbs 'hugged,' 'shuddering,' and 'limped' suggest he is cold and in pain. The simile 'like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff' makes him look weak. The image 'clasping himself, as if to hold himself together' shows he might fall apart. He even says, 'I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!', which sounds desperate. The 'hands of the dead people' image makes him seem frightened.

Overall, I agree that beneath the threats he is really a frightened, desperate man, and by the end he appears weak and pathetic.

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:

• Contrast in tone: from coercive threats to self-protective posture reveals a frightened, pitiable man (hugged his shuddering body)
• Body language: self-embrace suggests he is barely coping, heightening pathos (hold himself together)
• Movement: limping departure signals pain and weakness, undercutting earlier dominance (limped towards the low church wall)
• Simile: cold-numbed legs stress physical suffering and desperation (numbed and stiff)
• Cautious gait: tentative stepping implies fear of harm or capture, making him seem prey-like (picking his way)
• Vigilance: scanning the desolate landscape shows anxiety rather than swagger (glancing about him)
• Pathetic wish: yearning to be part of the marsh world hints at a desperate urge to escape (I wish I was a frog)
• Narrative viewpoint: the child’s perception frames him as precarious and haunted by the setting (in my young eyes)
• Juxtaposition: the exaggerated oath reads as bluster when set against his frailty, implying fear-driven intimidation (Say Lord strike you dead)
• Residual control: turning back to check the boy retains a flicker of menace, so he is not wholly pathetic (turned round to look for me)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A city newspaper is publishing a feature on the lives of night workers and wants creative pieces from young writers.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe the bustle of a bakery in the middle of the night from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about an unexpected discovery made during a night shift.

(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:

Midnight presses its cool face to the bakery window; inside, light spills with indecent generosity, gilding the flour-hazed air. Strip-lights hum, steady and consoling; the ovens burnish the room with an orange, pulsing glow. Flour hangs in the air like a slow galaxy, drifting and refracting; on benches it lies in dunes, soft as ash. The smell is complex — warm yeast and salted butter, the faint metallic tang of steel, a whisper of singed sugar — an olfactory promise. Beyond the frosted glass the street is lacquered in darkness and hushed; here, the night is cheerfully awake.

The soundscape is a palimpsest: the metronomic tick of timers; the low, oceanic drone of the extractor fans; the mixer’s muscular growl as spiral hooks worry dough. Trays clatter, then settle; a bench-scraper kisses wood with a bright, efficient scrape. Voices are soft to preserve the fragile magic of the rise; laughter fugitive, quickly swallowed. A forearm sweeps a crescent of flour, a practical comet; a hand marks quantities on a fogged-up clipboard with a stubby pencil. Steam ghosts up in pale ribbons, unscrolling towards the ceiling.

On the marble, a pale mass waits — obstinate at first, then obedient. They turn it, fold and press, fold and turn, a mantra accompanied by the soft tack-tack of dough loosening from skin. Palms move with unshowy virtuosity (these hands know ten thousand loaves); knuckles dimple the surface; elbows arc like metronomes. The dough’s surface blooms from tacky to satin; within, gluten stretches into invisible ladders, a quiet architecture. When a scrap tears, its honeycomb alveoli wink, glistening, then are kneaded back into silence.

Concurrently, at the back door, the night exhales: sacks of flour tumble onto a dolly; the chill drifts in and rasps the warm air. Two men negotiate space with practised irritation, one grumbling about frost-numbed fingers, the other joking about a tray of runaway éclairs. Clipboards are swapped; some flour fingerprints appear where signatures should be. The door closes with a hydraulic sigh; heat reasserts itself, magnanimous and immediate.

Peels slide beneath proofed loaves; the scoring blade makes swift, decisive cuts — chevrons, crescents, a careless star. For a heartbeat there is ceremonial quiet, a collective breath held as doors lift and heat roars. The first swell is always miraculous; crusts push outward, seams opening like smiles. Then crackle — the thin, ecstatic music of bread taking shape. Racks migrate on rubber wheels; a thermostat clicks; someone reaches for a kettle to replenish the pan, releasing steam that smells like rain on hot stone.

By two, everything is both relentless and tender. The clock’s hands circle with a stern grace; wrists ache, aprons grey, concentration fugues. Yet this industry does not grind so much as sing: a choreography of urgency and care, of repetition that edges towards the meditative. Outside, the street keeps its secrets; inside, a city’s breakfast is quietly, gloriously negotiated.

Option B:

Two a.m. The hour of humming belts and bleary eyes; of vending‑machine coffee that tastes like the inside of a coin; of work that happens while the city sleeps and thinks it is effortless. The warehouse is a ship at sea beneath phosphorescent strip‑lights—hawsers of conveyor belting looping, mastheads of stacked crates—creaking, complaining, carrying the tide of other people’s lives past my hands. Time slows; even the clock seems to hesitate, as if the minute hand is unsure whether the next minute deserves to be born.

Under the glare, barcodes flare, red little heartbeats. I feed and flip and scan, the rhythm so practised it has a music to it: a click, a hiss, the soft susurration of padded envelopes cocooning someone’s hope. Addresses blur into a palimpsest of names and places, a geography of longing. There is comfort in repetition; there is danger, too—the soporific sameness that sands the edges off attention. It is, in its way, a night‑shift prayer, the same words, the same gestures, again and again.

Tonight, the prayer stutters. The belt coughs. A white light flashes at the control panel, urgent and arterial. I slap the stop switch and the whole floor inhales; the sudden quiet is a thing with weight, draping over the bays, pooling in the corners. Far above, a pigeon—midnight‑grey, insolent—clatters from the rafters and is gone. My breath moves loud in my throat.

“Jam,” I say to no one. Just me. Knees prickling through thin work trousers, I kneel and unfasten the guard plate—two bolts, then a stubborn third that squeals, theatrically, as if it knows I don’t have the patience. A ribbon of oil slicks my fingers; the smell of warmed dust rises, confected and oddly sweet. I reach into the machine’s dark throat. My hand closes on paper—not the pebbled plastic of courier bags, but something heavier, fibrous, patient.

It is an envelope. Cream‑coloured once, now the shade of old tea; its edges are foxed, the corners softened as if countless thumbs have worried them. A wax seal, crazed with hairline fractures, clings to the flap—deep red, impressed with a stamp I can’t place. The postmark is faint but legible, a lopsided halo: 1941. A moth flutters in my chest.

By the book, undeliverables may be inspected to find a sender’s name; curiosity isn’t the rule, but it has been known to help. Nevertheless, my thumb hesitates. Who am I to open the past? The seal gives with the delicate, satisfying crack of thin ice. Dust lifts like breath from lungs. Inside: paper so thin I can almost see the cursive bleed through; a pressed cornflower, crisp as porcelain; something small thuds into my palm—a ring, plain and light, its circle catching the strip‑light and making a second, silver moon on my skin.

Between the coil of the belt and the slow‑ticking clock, I realise two truths at once: the night is not empty; and what I have found doesn’t belong to it—or to me—at all. Yet here it is, insisting. The city sleeps. I begin to read.

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

Option A:

Midnight presses its face to the bakery windows, but inside, the world is awake. Heat breathes from the ovens; lamps swim in flour-fog. Outside lies slick darkness; within, countertops are pale with dust, like winter fields. The scent is heavy and complicated: sourdough tang like green apple skins, butter softening to a whisper, sugar warming towards caramel. A clock ticks as if to be obeyed. Someone opens a sack; it sighs a cloud that drifts upwards — a private snowfall that powders hair, eyelashes, the ridges of scarred hands.

There is a rhythm here, tight as a drum and patient as tide. Mixers hum and grumble; metal hooks turn, gathering silkiness out of chaos. On the bench, palms press, pull, fold; the dough answers, stretching, resisting, yielding. Fold, turn, fold, turn. The slap against wood is a punctuation mark you can feel. Scrapers rasp. Timers ping in off-beat harmony. The language is practical, pared-back, almost ritual: two more minutes; knock it back; prove until the dome is proud.

The bakers move with an unshowy choreography. There is the older man whose apron is a palimpsest of nights; he listens with his hands and knows when gluten is right. There is the apprentice, trainers dusted to chalk; she keeps pace, counting under her breath, then brightens when layers unfurl. They do not hurry and yet everything happens quickly. A peel slides under a boule; a door opens; heat leaps out like a wild animal then subsides.

Croissants, crescent and confident, line up like miniature moons. Butter is folded — not once or twice but again and again — until the dough behaves like cards, crisp at the edges, tender at the heart. Buns are brushed with amber glaze; varnish gathers in seams and glitters. Raisins swell; poppy seeds freckle a field of pale dough. A serrated blade scores a shy pattern on a round; later, it will bloom. When the loaves crackle as they cool, the sound is soft, a conversation: tiny fractures whispering.

Outside, night lingers. The city beyond is a smudge of sodium orange. Boxes are stacked; labels are written in tidy capitals; a van door thuds in the alley — impatient, expectant. Soon, someone in a cold kitchen will tear a heel from a new loaf and let the crumb steam against their palm. The makers will not see it. They will tidy, sweep, lock up; they will step into the thinning dark and carry the warmth home.

Option B:

Night. The hour of long corridors and longer shadows; of humming strip-lights and the sweet-sour tang of coffee gone cold. The library held its breath, books in regimented ranks under the halogen glare. Outside, streets thinned to whisper; inside, everything was precise, antiseptic. The clock ticked with metronomic obstinacy: not fast, not slow.

Jonah did his rounds with the practised choreography of someone who knows where floorboards complain and which lift sulks. Vacuum; wipe; empty; repeat. He liked nights; the building was honest. The day had performances—lectures and laughter; at night, the hum of the vents, the sibilant brush on varnished wood, his breathing settling. On his belt, a ring of keys chimed; in his pocket, a torch, its beam obedient and crisp.

By Special Collections, he paused. A draught trembled over his forearms, cool as a warning. That corner was usually still, pages sealed behind glass, manuscripts sleeping under climate-controlled domes. Tonight, one tall stack—Victorian Periodicals, 1860-1899—sat a fraction proud of its neighbours, an untidy soldier. Jonah pressed his palm flat against the end panel. It shifted, not much; a breath of movement, a hush. He frowned, pressed again, and felt, unmistakably, the give of a hinge.

He should have called someone. He knew the protocol; report, record, refrain. Instead—because curiosity is a kind of muscle—he leaned his weight and the shelf swung inward on oiled secrecy. Behind it: a brick-lined slit of corridor, smelling of cold dust. He stepped through. His torch drew a stripe of light along a room no bigger than a cupboard: a desk with a green-shaded lamp, a wooden chair, pigeonholes. Dust sifted like patient snow.

On the desk lay an envelope, yellowed to parchment. The handwriting on it was neat, slanted, deliberate: To the Night Custodian. Jonah’s throat tightened, silly and sudden. He set the keys down—careful; their clink sounded too loud—and slid a fingernail under the flap. Inside was a letter and a brass key on a little tag stamped 12. The letter smelled faintly of furniture polish, as if it had been waiting.

He read the first line twice, to be sure he wasn’t fabricating it out of loneliness or caffeine: ‘If you’ve found this, you already know the library keeps rooms for some, not others.’ There were more words, dense and tidy; instructions or invitation—he couldn’t tell. He glanced back at the aperture, the obedient bookcase, the silence. The night, which usually lay flat as an ironed sheet, had creased.

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

Option A:

At two in the morning, the street outside is a muted tunnel, bins hunched, shutters shut; but behind the glass the bakery glows, steady, awake. Flour hangs in the air like pale fog, frosting sleeves and eyelashes, softening everything to a quiet blur. Heat breathes from the open ovens, and the worktops are dusted white like winter fields. Yeast and butter mingle in a warm, serious smell that fills your chest. Hands move with quiet urgency, wrists turning, knuckles pressing, palms quick. The metal table ticks under the bowl, and a small fan pushes the sweet haze around the room.

There is a kind of music here: whirr, slap, tap; hiss, tick, ding. The mixer hums then grumbles as the dough gathers itself into a smooth ball. Trays clatter—quickly stilled by practised palms. Knives whisper through parchment; the bench scraper makes a bright, clean chime. Stretch, fold, turn. A timer blinks its green eye; the oven answers with a low, patient roar. Somebody shuffles a sack of flour—heavy, dull—while another flicks a fine snow of icing sugar, settling like first frost.

Dough sighs under the heel of a hand, stubborn for a breath and then obedient. Croissants are rolled into crescents, pale moons in rows; plaited loaves wait with glossy shoulders for heat to lift them higher. Butter melts in a quiet rush, escaping into layers; cinnamon wakes the air. Steam curls from a tray like small ghosts, and the window fogs again. The sweetness is generous but not cloying, almost sensible, and yet a thin ribbon of caramel from the ovens snakes out and makes the night feel suddenly brighter.

They talk softly, half whisper, half laugh, the jokes simple at this hour but welcome. The radio murmurs an old chorus from far away. Faces are flushed, forearms strong, aprons smudged with grey fingerprints. Outside, a fox pads past the bins. Inside, the racks are filling; silver trees hung with warm fruit. No one claps, there is no audience, but each loaf set down feels like an answer. Soon the first bus will mutter by and the town will wake, fed by work it never really sees.

Option B:

Night. The museum shed its daytime shine and settled into a quieter face; glass cases dulled; the marble floors held pale copies of the strip-lights. The clock above Reception clicked too loudly for its size, like a tiny metronome for empty rooms.

I took the clipboard, the ring of keys, the radio with a battery that never quite held. Routine kept me upright: Gallery One, Gallery Two, fire doors, windows, the portraits whose eyes used to creep me out, until they didn’t. At two in the morning, routine is everything; it stitches the hours so they don’t fall apart. Tonight my hands smelled of polish and coffee; outside the city was a muffled rumour, inside the air tasted of lemon cleaner and dust.

Halfway down the Victorian wing, something was wrong. Not loud wrong—just a thread pulled loose: the velvet rope at the end cabinet hung like a punctuation mark. My radio hissed, then quietened. I told myself to be sensible—curators get called back; night crews move things. I rehooked the rope and, because I couldn’t not, looked behind the coin case. That’s when I felt it: a draught, cool and definite, coming from the wall.

Behind the tapestry with the stag, the fabric breathed. Fingers slid under the edge—slow, careful—and it lifted like a heavy curtain. Dust muffled my throat; my torch-beam stitched a thin line across stone. There was a door: a narrow panel, almost the wall’s colour, with a teardrop keyhole. Who hides a door? The keys clinked as I tried one, then another. On the third, the lock turned with a noise that felt too loud.

Inside wasn’t a tunnel but a cupboard: shelves, a stool, a wooden box with a brass clasp. The air was colder, metallic. The box was warm under my hands—silly, I know—and when the clasp clicked open my heart did a leap. Inside lay a notebook tied with frayed ribbon, three glass marbles, and a folded photograph of this very corridor. In the corner, half-shadowed, a woman stood with my ridiculous key ring at her belt.

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

Option A:

In the middle of the night, when the street is a strip of black, the bakery glows like a small ship. The window fogs and clears—a slow breath against the glass. Inside, flour floats in the air, a haze that turns every movement into a blur. Metal trays knock, a muted clang that does not want to wake the neighbours. A clock blinks 2:37. It smells of warmth: yeast, butter, sugar melting into the heavy air.

Hands move in a steady rhythm. Palms press, push, fold and turn, fold and turn. The dough is obedient then stubborn, stretching like tired elastic, sulking back into itself. On the floured bench it looks like a landscape of pale dunes; the scraper scratches. Rubber soles hush across the tiles. A young baker, with flour freckles on her cheeks, narrows her eyes at the scales—precision matters, even at three in the morning.

The mixer drums a patient beat; the bowl revolves like a planet under a low sun. Ovens exhale when their doors swing open, gold light spilling with a wave of heat that kisses skin and stings eyes. Trays slide in, trays slide out: a parade of crescents, plaits and round rolls. The air is thick: salt and sweetness, orange zest and cinnamon, the sharp cut of coffee someone forgot to drink. Sugar crackles, dough rises—quiet growth in the dark.

Outside, the road keeps its silence, but inside the pace grows. A delivery van sighs at the kerb; bags of flour sway like slow bells. Blades flash; loaves are scored with quick, neat slashes, seeds scattering like rain on roofs. By the time birds test the pale sky, the counter is a field of warm shapes, glossy and proud. Night has not ended in here; it has been baked into crusts and steam.

Option B:

The museum at night was a different creature: quiet, but not empty. The air tasted of dust and polish, and the red dots of the alarms blinked like patient eyes. My footsteps echoed along the marble hall; each click seemed too loud, so I padded instead, as if I could wake the statues.

I was on the graveyard shift for the fourth time that week. 2:11 a.m. Routine kept me awake: check the west corridor; pass the whale skeleton; write the same notes in the same narrow book. The radio on my shoulder coughed now and then. Normal. Safe. Dull, if I’m honest.

At the end of the archaeology wing, a thin draught brushed my wrist. That corridor never creaked and yet, tonight, a door was open by an inch. The sign said ‘Archive – Staff Only’, which, technically, included me. I told myself I should shut it and report it in the morning, I also told myself I was being silly. Curiosity can be louder than rules at two in the morning.

Inside, the light was low, yellow and tired. Shelves rose like narrow streets. It smelt of paper and cold glue; I didn’t know paper had a smell until then. My torch slid over labels: thin handwriting and dates. The radio crackled, then fell quiet again. At the back, behind a map cabinet, something glinted—small, stubborn. A box, not much bigger than a lunch tin, with a brass latch and a faded scarf tied round it.

My heart did that odd stutter it does when you almost drop a glass. I thumbed the latch; it hesitated and then let go with a soft breath. Inside, on a bed of tissue, lay a pocket watch and a photograph. The watch felt warm, as if it had just left someone’s palm. The photograph showed the museum steps, men in dark coats; in the corner, in neat ink, a surname I knew from the staff board downstairs. Mine.

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

Option A:

Midnight presses on the dark windows, but inside the bakery the light is fierce. The air is warm and grainy, flour drifting like slow snow and catching in eyelashes. Outside the town is asleep. In here, a different morning begins.

First, hands push and pull. Dough slaps the table, a soft thud that repeats: fold, turn, fold, turn. Palms sink into the pale mass and it sighs; it stretches like a tired face. Dust blooms with every beat of the bench, white on sleeves, white on the floor. The mixer hums, a steady drone, its metal arm circling and circling.

Meanwhile, ovens breathe. Their mouths glow orange, a small fire kept tame. Trays clatter as they slide in; a line of buns wears a shiny glaze, another waits. Someone calls times across the room—fifteen for croissants, ten for bloomers—while a pencil scrawls numbers on a smudged board. There is the smell of yeast and butter and cinnamon, sweet and heavy. Eggs crack, sugar pours, milk sloshes into a bowl that looks too big, but it isn’t.

Who sleeps when the ovens are awake? The heat is heavy, it sits on your shoulders, and your shirt sticks. Yet there is a rhythm here, a comfort. Steam beads on the window; beyond it the street stays grey. Soon plugs of dough will rise into loaves, their crusts will crackle as they cool. Racks will roll to the door. And the night will lift—slowly—and bread will go out, warm, breathing.

Option B:

Two a.m. is when the warehouse stops pretending to be busy. Fluorescent lights hum; the vending machine sighs. My broom scrapes the concrete. The forklift sits like a sleeping beetle. I sip cold coffee, bitter but useful. Tick. Tick. The clock on the office wall tries to cheer me on. Outside, wind presses its face to the loading bay door. Inside, it’s just me, my list, and the echo that follows every step.

Then something drops in aisle 14: not loud, but wrong. I stop. The aisles are empty, I tell myself to keep moving; but the sound scratches at me. I take the torch from my belt and go, the beam wobbling. At the end a metal panel sits loose behind some crates. A draught slips through a thin gap. It shouldn’t be there — I pass this spot every night.

I pull the panel; it scrapes and gives. Cold air breathes out. Behind it a narrow passage slopes down, like in an old film. I squeeze inside, heart thudding. The space opens into a small room: a chair, a table, a tin lunchbox rusted at the corners. Inside are photographs and a bundle of letters tied with blue string. 1941 is on the top. An air-raid shelter? Above me, a footstep taps. I’m not alone.

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

Option A:

Midnight, and the bakery is awake. Yellow light pools across the floor, turning the flour into pale snow. The air tastes of warm yeast and sugar. A radio whispers an old song from the corner; the fridges hum back. Bakers rub their eyes, pull on aprons, hands ghostly with powder. Trays rattle in stacks. It feels busy but calm, like the sea before it breaks.

Meanwhile, dough is pushed and folded and pushed again, a steady rhythm. Slap, turn, fold. Flour rises in little clouds and lands on eyebrows like frost. The mixers whirr and stop; someone laughs. Croissants are rolled into neat moons on silver trays. Cinnamon breath drifts through the room, sweet and kind of sharp. The oven door opens and a breath of heat strides out; it bites, then fades.

Then the pace grows faster. Orders taped to the wall are ticked, ticked, ticked. Proofed loaves swell like sleepy pillows; the baker taps them with careful fingers. Outside it is dark, but inside it is already morning. Coffee burbles. A bell on the back door jitters—another bag of flour arrives. Finally, the first batch comes golden, and the whole place smells like breakfast. For a moment everyone stops to hear the crackle as crusts cool.

Option B:

Midnight. The hour when the supermarket felt like a ship in a quiet sea; fridges hummed, flourescent lights buzzed, and the clock ticked louder than people ever do. I pushed a metal cage down Aisle 9, counting tins and trying to keep warm. Night shift meant quiet, slow, and safe. I was alone. Or so I thought.

A squeaky wheel snagged on a ripped tile. The cage lurched and a stack of crisps shivered like a nervous crowd. I reached to fix them and felt a breath of cold on my wrist. Strange. The freezers were the other way. I moved the display back and there it was: a metal panel behind cardboard. It looked wrong on the wall, like it didn’t belong, it’s screws loosened to silver dust.

I pressed it. The panel shifted and the supermarket coughed out dust, like old books. I held my breath, the humming grew louder—then softer—as if listening. Using my phone torch, I peered inside. Steps, narrow and grey, sank into the floor. Below: a small room, square, with shelves of bottled water and a faded sign that said Shelter. On the table sat a tin box tied with blue ribbon, waiting for someone, maybe for me.

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

Option A:

It is the middle of the night. Outside is black and sleepy, but in the bakery it is bright - hot and awake. The air feels thick and warm. Flour sits in the air like little snow, it lands on hands and arms and faces.

The smell is butter and sugar and fresh bread. My nose feels full. Trays slide and scrape. There is a thud thud thud when dough gets knocked on the table, it goes again and again. A mixer hums like a bee, it never stops. Steam comes out and makes the windows wet.

Bakers move quick, sleeves pushed up, eyes tired but awake. They roll and fold and twist. Someone calls, more flour here, dont stop, and the cloud lifts up. The clock ticks slow but the work goes fast, it is busy, it is busy.

The street outside is quiet.

Option B:

Night. Humming lights, empty aisles, a long shift and cold coffee. The building felt asleep. I walked with my torch. The beam was thin like a weak knife. The floor was sticky. The fridges hummed like bees.

I check doors, I check tills, I check the back. Same and same, until a small clink under aisle seven. It didnt fit the night.

I went on my knees. I pushed my hand under the low shelf. Dust on my skin. Something cold touched me. My hand was shaking.

A tin. Small, red, chipped, hiding there.

I pulled it out slow. It scraped. I opened it with my nail. Inside was coins, old and heavy, and a tiny photo of our shop. They smelt of metal and dust. My name was wrote on the back.

I didnt move. I dont know why. I just held it. The night felt different.

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

Option A:

It is night and the bakery is not asleep. The lights buzz and the oven is breathing hot air. The bakers is rolling dough back and forth, back and forth. There is many trays that rattle and a clock ticks loud. It smells sweet and warm and a little burnt. I hear a bang and somebody laughs, they are tired but they go on. Its to hot, I wipe my arm and the flour sticks and I dont mind. Outside the moon is big and the road is empty. A cat runs past the door and I look at it.

Option B:

Night. The store is quiet. I am on night shift. The lights buzz and the floor is cold. I make tea and it taste bad. I think about my dog at home. The clock is slow and I am bored, the boss says keep busy but there is nothing. I walk down row 4 with a torch, there is a box by the freezer it was not there before I think. I push it and it moves, my heart jump. Its not a rat. Inside is a small key in tape. It shine. I done my rounds so I go to the back door, the key wants to fit.