English language Paper 1 and 2 - PDFCOFFEE.COM (2024)

2 Answer two questions 1

The passage below is a favourable review of an American group called White Stripes and appeared in a broadsheet newspaper. (a) Comment on how the writer uses language to express her views and feelings in the extract. [15] (b) As a music critic for the local paper, you have watched the same performance as the writer of the original extract. You are far less impressed by what you have seen and intend to say so in your review of the concert. Basing your answer closely on the extract, write the article (between 120–150 words). [10]

The first thing to say about brother-sister Detroit duo White Stripes is that it has been some time since a band looked so defiantly, organically odd. At one point, there was a hot rumour flying around that they were not siblings at all, rather a divorced couple, which makes you wonder what sort of children they might have had. Watching their sweaty, intimate show at Brighton’s Concorde 2, it’s clear that, even in music-business terms, White Stripes are not your average twentysomethings. Dressed only in red, white, a touch of black, Jack and Meg Wade resemble something Andy Warhol and David Byrne might have dreamt up for an art happening. Moreover, both remind you of movies. There’s Jack on vocals and guitar, twanging away hypnotically, all raven, mussed hair and screaming paleness. He resembles one of the lost smalltown teenagers who sat beside the dead body in River’s Edge. Then there’s Meg, with her drums, bashing away intensely, all long, drippy pigtails and hillbilly stillness, like she might feel more at home spanking the banjo in an all-female remake of Deliverance. White Stripes’s determined visual oddness sets them apart from the common herd maybe because it suggests that, uniquely for these times, they do not (will not?) exude any stale pop chumminess, any We’re-Just-Like-You-Guys bonhomie (the last refuge of the talentless pop scoundrel). With White Stripes, it seems to be a case of: We’re different, nothing like you at all. Stare as hard as you like, baby – this time it really is all about the music. And what music it is. White Stripes formed in the late Nineties, but it was their third album, this year’s White Blood Cells, that got them noticed. And deservedly so. Listening to White Blood Cells feels like being hypnotised into joining a sinister religious cult for the 15-track duration. Remarkably, it manages to be insanely, impertinently derivative without irritating the listener. Everywhere on the album, you’re hearing The Stooges, The Pixies, Suicide, Bob Dylan, Sonic Youth, Jane’s Addiction, The Kinks, The Cramps, Sonic Youth, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles and pretty much everybody else of note you can think of. And while at first you laugh and think: Get out of here, you cheeky, thieving little beggars, something about the way White Stripes mix it all up, then push it all out in a bluesy, garagey, noir-country roar makes you realise that something very special is happening. It’s as if all the best facets of twentieth-century music have been fed into one of those car-crushing machines and White Stripes are the cube that pops out at the end. Any fool can listen to music, many a fool actually makes it, but with White Stripes you get the spooky feeling that – without bass-lines, without mincing about with computer trickery – they have actually become the music. The other great thing about White Stripes is that they’re unafraid to tell you stories. At times, their set at Brighton was less a collection of songs than it was a series of out-of-towner road movies, part Neil Diamond, part George Formby, part Willie Nelson, part Nick Cave. Naturally, they never begin or end exactly as you’d expect. With ‘I’m Finding It Harder To Be A Gentleman’, you think you’re hearing 8693/1 M/J/03

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3 some misogynistic upstart sneering at his girlfriend (‘If I held the door open for you, it would make your day’), but then you realise that the narrator is an icon of insecurity. Similarly, ‘Little Room’ turns out to be an essay of how success is the enemy of creativity, ‘We’re Gonna Be Friends’ is actually childhood reminiscence, while ‘The Union Forever’ changes from being an anti-love song (‘It can’t be love for there is no true love’) into a musical march against materialism (‘What would I like to have been? Everything you hate’). Crucially, while White Stripes are undeniably pretentious (reekingly so), they’re unafraid to be a bit silly too. Their current single, ‘Hotel Yorba’ (‘Grab your umbrella cos I’m your favourite fella’) is, beneath the layer of white-trash white noise, rather like dot-to-dot, mumsy Beatles. Elsewhere, ‘I Think I Can Smell A Rat’ comes across like Little Richard meets Little Jimmy Osmond, while their leftfield version of ‘Jolene’ sounds like Rocky Horror dissolving in a garage acid bath. All this and more White Stripes pelted out, note-perfect, at the Brighton crowd, with hardly a pause for breath, and certainly very little time-wasting chitchat. In the end, I left, mystified and amused. White Stripes might not be the future of rock ’n’ roll, but they are definitely a witty, original, gifted take on its past. It’s our good luck that we’re getting to enjoy them in the present. White Stripes play the Wolverhampton Wulfrun Hall tomorrow, Bristol Anson Rooms on Tuesday, London Astoria on Wednesday, London Forum on 6 December.

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4 2

The passage below describes the atmosphere on board ship as the Titanic was damaged. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) As a survivor, you are asked many years later to write a magazine article about events at the time. Basing your answer closely on the passage, write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). [10]

From Thursday noon to Friday noon the Titanic ran 386 nautical miles. Friday to Saturday 519 miles, and Saturday to Sunday 546 miles. She was making 22 knots. Everyone agreed she was the most comfortable ship they had travelled in. There was, though, a vibration, which was most noticeable as one lay in the bath. The throb of the engines came straight up from the floor through the metal sides of the tub so that one could not put one’s head back with any comfort. Throughout her voyage, the Titanic slightly listed to port, but it was nothing. As the second-class passengers sat at table in the dining-room they could, if they watched the skyline through the portholes, see both skyline and sea on the port side but only sky to starboard. The purser thought this was probably because more coal had been used from the starboard bunkers. When some passengers went on deck on Sunday morning they found the temperature had dropped so rapidly that they did not care to stay outside, although there was no wind, or only that artificial wind created by the passage of the ship. Both the French liner Touraine and the German Amerika had wirelessed the Titanic reporting ice, and the Titanic had replied thanking them. Sunday dinner was served, and then coffee. Thomas Andrews, the shipbuilder, strolled down to the kitchens to thank the baker for making some special bread for him. The passengers went to bed with the presumption, perhaps already mentally half-realised, as (Lawrence) Beesley put it, that they would be ashore in New York in forty-eight hours time. At the evening service, after coffee, Rev. Mr Carter had caused the hymn ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea’ to be sung, but he had brought the service to a close with a few words on the great confidence all on board felt in the Titanic’s great steadiness and size. At 11.40, in Lat. 41° 46´ N. Long. 50° 14´ W. Frederick Fleet, the look-out in the crow’s-nest, saw or sensed an iceberg ahead. The Titanic veered to port, so that it was her starboard plates which were glanced open. The engines were stopped. There was a perfectly still atmosphere. It was a brilliantly starlit night but with no moon, so that there was little light that was of any use. She was a ship that had come quietly to rest without any indication of disaster. No ice was visible: the iceberg had been glimpsed by the look-out and then gone. There was no hole in the ship’s side through which water could be seen to be pouring, nothing out of place, no sound of alarm, no panic, and no movement of anyone except at a walking pace. Within ten minutes the water had risen fourteen feet inside the ship. Mail bags were floating about in the mail room. The passengers had no idea of danger. Beesley, who was in bed, noticed no more than what he took to be the slightest extra heave of the engines. What most people noticed first was the sudden lack of engine vibration. This had been with them so constantly for the four days of the voyage that they had ceased to be conscious of it, but when it stopped they noticed the supervening silence and stillness. The only passengers who saw an iceberg were a few still playing cards in the smoking room. They idly discussed how high it might have been, settled on an estimate of eighty feet, and went back to their cards. One pointed to a glass of whisky at his side and, turning to an onlooker, suggested he should just run along on deck to see if any ice had come on board. If so, he would like some more in his whisky. They laughed. In fact, as the crew discovered, the decks were strewn with ice, but even then, so unaware were they of danger, that Edward Buley, an able seaman, picked up a handful of it, took it down to his bunk, 8693/1 M/J/03

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5 and turned in again. There was no panic because there was no awareness. The Titanic was assumed to be unsinkable. The shipbuilders had said so. Practically everyone believed she was as unsinkable as a railway station. A Rothschild, asked to put on his life-jacket, said he did not think there was any occasion for it, and walked leisurely away. Stewards rode bicycles round and round in the gym. She was in fact sinking very fast, and by midnight was a quarter sunk already. There was something unusual about the stairs, a curious sense of something out of balance, a sense of not being able to put one’s foot down in the right place. The stairs were tilting forward and tended to throw your feet out of place. There was no visible slope, just something strange perceived by the sense of balance. The Titanic was settling by the head.

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6 3

In the passage below, Alice Walker, author of The Color Purple, explains how the novel developed in her mind. (a) In the style of the original passage, continue the account so that it reflects the writer’s growing confidence that she will finish the novel (between 120–150 words). [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original extract.

When I was sure the characters of my new novel were trying to form (or, as I invariably thought of it, trying to contact me, to speak through me), I began to make plans to leave New York. Three months earlier I had bought a tiny house on a quiet Brooklyn street, assuming – because my desk overlooked the street and a maple tree in the yard, representing garden and view – I would be able to write. I was not. New York, whose people I love for their grace under almost continual unpredictable adversity, was a place the people in The Color Purple refused even to visit. The moment any of them started to form – on the subway, a dark street, and especially in the shadow of very tall buildings – they would start to complain. ‘What is all this anyway?’ they would say. I disposed of the house, stored my furniture, packed my suitcases, and flew alone to San Francisco (it was my daughter’s year to be with her father), where all the people in the novel promptly fell silent – I think, in awe. Not merely of the city’s beauty, but of what they picked up about earthquakes. ‘It’s pretty,’ they muttered, ‘but us ain’t lost nothing in no place that has earthquakes.’ They also didn’t like seeing buses, cars, or other people whenever they attempted to look out. ‘Us don’t want to be seeing none of this,’ they said. ‘It make us can’t think.’ That was when I knew for sure these were country people. So my lover and I started driving around the state looking for a country house to rent. Luckily I had found (with the help of friends) a fairly inexpensive place in the city. This too had been a decision forced by my characters. As long as there was any question about whether I could support them in the fashion they desired (basically in undisturbed silence) they declined to come out. Eventually we found a place in northern California we could afford and that my characters liked. And no wonder: it looked a lot like the town in Georgia most of them were from, only it was more beautiful and the local swimming hole was not segregated. It also bore a slight resemblance to the African village in which one of them, Nettie, was a missionary. Seeing the sheep, the cattle, and the goats, smelling the apples and the hay, one of my characters, Celie, began, haltingly, to speak. But there was still a problem. Since I quit my editing job at Ms. and my Guggenheim Fellowship was running out, and my royalties did not quite cover expenses, and – let’s face it – because it gives me a charge to see people who appreciate my work, historical novels or not, I was accepting invitations to speak. Sometimes on the long plane rides Celie or Shug would break through with a wonderful line or two (for instance, Celie said once that a self-pitying sick person she went to visit was ‘laying up in the bed trying to look dead’). But even these vanished – if I didn’t jot them down – by the time my contact with the audience was done. What to do? Celie and Shug answered without hesitation: Give up all this travel. Give up all this talk. What is all this travel and talk anyway? So, I gave it up for a year. Whenever I was invited to speak I explained I was taking a year off for Silence. (I also wore an imaginary bracelet on my left arm that spelled the word.) Everyone said, Sure, they understood. 8693/1 M/J/03

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7 I was terrified. Where was the money for our support coming from? My only steady income was a three-hundred-dollar-a-month retainer from Ms. for being a long-distance editor. But even that was too much distraction for my characters. Tell them you can’t do anything for the magazine, said Celie and Shug. (You guessed it, the women of the drawers.) Tell them you’ll have to think about them later. So, I did. Ms. was unperturbed. Supportive as ever (they continued the retainer). Which was nice. Then I sold a book of stories. After taxes, inflation, and my agent’s fee of ten percent, I would still have enough for a frugal, no-frills year. And so, I bought some beautiful blue-and-red-and-purple fabric, and some funky old secondhand furniture (and accepted donations of old odds and ends from friends), and a quilt pattern my mama swore was easy, and I headed for the hills. There were days and weeks and even months when nothing happened. Nothing whatsoever. I worked on my quilt, took long walks with my lover, lay on an island we discovered in the middle of the river and dabbled my fingers in the water. I swam, explored the redwood forests all around us, lay out in the meadow, picked apples, talked (yes, of course) to trees. My quilt began to grow. And, of course, everything was happening. Celie and Shug and Albert were getting to know each other, coming to trust my determination to serve their entry (sometimes I felt reentry) into the world to the best of my ability, and what is more – and felt so wonderful – we began to love one another. And, what is even more, to feel immense thankfulness for our mutual good luck.

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2 Answer two questions 1

In the passage below the writer travels from England to visit her mother in West Africa. She becomes increasingly aware of cultural differences between her mother and herself. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The mother later writes a letter to another relative discussing the relationship with her daughter and expressing concerns about her. Basing your answer closely on the extract, write the opening of the letter (between 120–150 words). [10] I have spent the last ten years trying to slim. I have tried the Slimfast juices that promised me all but delivered nothing. No sooner would I have gulped one down than I’d be hovering by the fridge. On days when the diet is on full steam, I starve myself all day and then binge on all manner of food at dawn, a bit like breaking one’s fast to make up for lost time. At times of utter desperation, I would rush out to the nearest supermarket and stock up on rye bread, cottage cheese and salads. Yes, especially the salads with the accompanying ‘oil-free’ dressings. I can hear you say, What about cream dressing? What about it? The only oil that sneaks into my system during this oil-free fast is palm oil. You know, it is meant to have real medicinal qualities, is rich in Vitamin A, improves skin texture and aids digestion. No, seriously, palm oil is not part of the diet, but occasionally one gets these urges to eat some proper food. That is not to say that one abandons the diet altogether – far from it! I mean, don’t they have half-time during football matches? Tennis players get a few minutes to catch their breath after every two games. And boxers get the odd few minutes to sit down on their tiny stool and work out how to knock their opponent out of the ring. It is in this manner, of giving myself the odd breather, that the rot sets in and I reach out for the egusi stew and … well, I am sure you would approve of the rest. When I travelled home to Accra at the height of one of these (stop-start, stopstart) slimming periods, I felt quite good about myself. As I descended the steps of the Boeing 747 into the familiar smells of hot and humid Accra, I could feel the sweat trickling down the back of my figure-hugging Monsoon outfit and felt all was well with the world. Mama was so pleased to see me, but she was horrified at how ‘thin’ I looked. For a few days I couldn’t quite work out the reason, I kept catching her eye looking me over. Then, one morning as I took breakfast of koko and koose to her room and sat on the edge of her bed to have our usual tête-à-tête (something we have always done to sort out real problems and share in our joys), she asked if everything was all right between me and my husband. Taken aback by the deep concern Mama had shown, I asked why. It all came tumbling out – how she had always known me to be big-boned and well-rounded, with child-bearing hips; a real woman and not one of these sticks hiding under ntama and kaba, parading around as though representing the image of new woman, but really looking quite ill. I tried to tell Mama that in my adopted culture, where I now live and work, it is considered quite beautiful to be thin. Upon which, I was quickly reprimanded and reminded that I might live in that culture, but home is home, and I mustn’t forget the good things I was taught about womanhood. In the early morning sunshine, I noticed Mama’s furrowed brow, and the realization came to me that not only are we a generation apart but we live in two different worlds. Then the lecture started: ‘You know, in our culture, at the onset of puberty, a girl is put in a room for a week and fattened for dipo. She eats, drinks and does nothing all day, and on the seventh day she is bathed and bedecked in precious beads and expensive gold jewellery and takes her place among her peer group, she’s paraded through the town square amid a lot of pomp and ceremony in celebration of her transition from girlhood into womanhood. And that my dear, is our culture. © UCLES 2005

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3 Her voice trailed off when she said, ‘And I hear the Effiks of Calabar have a similar culture of the fattening-rooms initiation ceremonies for girls before betrothal.’ My immediate reaction was to say to her, ‘Mama but I don’t live in Calabar, Dodowa or Somanya, I live in Oxford.’ One never argues with Mama, not if one has any sense. The final blow came when I excused myself to go jogging. I have found jogging along a sandy beach (something I used to enjoy as a child) a real calorie-burner and I was eager to take advantage of the cool morning sea-breeze. Mama gave me that look, which I know so well and recognized instinctively from my childhood, with its coded message: ‘I don’t approve.’

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4 2

The passage below describes the writer’s memories of learning to drive. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) As part of their jobs, the instructor and the examiner had to provide brief notes summarising the writer’s driving performance. Basing your answer closely on the material in the extract, write both sets of notes (between 60 and 75 words for each report). [10] I dreaded my driving test. I have not forgotten the gloom and horror of my endless lessons, though they took place over 30 years ago. I was instructed by a man who, in some previous existence, must have been a Regimental SergeantMajor. Following him from his office to his car, I lost confidence even as a pedestrian. His kerb-drill, shoes gleaming one inch from the pavement’s edge, eyes swivelling right then left, was a fearsome spectacle. When he turned sharply into other streets he made strange gestures like hand-signals. Struggling behind him, I began colliding with people. As pedestrians, my instructor and I did not fraternise with each other and only when, slightly bruised, I caught up with him at the car itself did he address me. “This,” he said, “is the car.” The first lesson, I remember, was a very preliminary affair. Like dogs, we circled the waiting vehicle, while my instructor pointed out features of interest to me: windows, doors, lights, bumpers and so on. Then we came to the soul of the lesson: entering, and exiting from, the car. I got in, I got out, and in again and out again. I did this on the near side and on the off side. I also locked and unlocked these doors from inside and out. It was laborious work. As a mere passenger, I had never realised before what a complex business this getting in and out of a car should be. After an hour of it I was exhausted. “DSM next,” my instructor said as we marched back to his office. It sounded dangerous work to me, an acquired taste, and I looked forward to my next lesson with some apprehension. DSM the following week turned out to be door, seat and mirror. I repeated all I had performed with the doors, I manipulated endlessly, up and down, the windows and, like a dentist, I adjusted the seats to their extremities, sitting to attention next to my instructor one minute, then lying adjacent to him the next, and strapping myself in vigorously at his command. Between these exercises we allowed ourselves short rest periods during which we would discuss distilled water, tyres and other interesting matters. After four lessons, though I had mastered the milometer, speedometer, windscreen wipers, horn, oil-gauge and (rather unnecessarily I thought) the brakes; we still had not moved. The dust was gathering on us. We were road furniture, never traffic. I seemed to have no destination. We did eventually move the car backwards at first (it was hardly progress) and then forwards at last. Milk-floats overtook us, bicycles, old ladies and gentlemen from a previous century, but I was on my way. I had booked my test even before my first lesson and when the day eventually arrived I knew what to do. All I had suffered over those long weeks, all that agony, humiliation and academic pointlessness threaded over 20 lessons, I concentrated into 20 minutes and gave back. My examiner was a mild, moustached man. He did not know what he had done wrong. But I came to his help. As I was able to show, he did everything wrong. He got into the car wrong, he sat wrong, he was an altogether unskilful passenger. At every move I put him scrupulously right, bundling him in and out and up and down. Before we could start, I took it upon myself to prove that his car was worthy of the road. I checked everything from the boot to the bumpers. When asked to drive forwards, I did so – but only after violently adjusting the mirror, operating the window and giving a display of handsignals any conjuror would have envied. There was so © UCLES 2005

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5 much to do, I doubt whether we had time to move more than 30 yards along the crowded London streets over the next 30 minutes. But it was an aging experience. I had been well-drilled and it was my examiner who cracked. His hand was trembling as he signed my certificate. I was now equipped, I felt, to advance my career.

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6 3

The speech below comes from George Orwell’s novel Animal Farm and is delivered by Major, a pig, who shares his thoughts with other creatures. In the speech, Major explains how, from the animals’ point of view, humans are their enemies. (a) Basing your answer closely on the style of the passage, write the opening (between 120–150 words) of a speech in which a human being identifies a particular enemy or threat and urges action. [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original extract. ‘Comrades, you have heard already about the strange dream that I had last night. But I will come to the dream later. I have something else to say first. I do not think, comrades, that I shall be with you for many months longer, and before I die I feel it my duty to pass on to you such wisdom as I have acquired. I have had a long life, I have had much time for thought as I lay alone in my stall, and I think I may say that I understand the nature of life on this earth as well as any animal now living. It is about this that I wish to speak to you. ‘Now, comrades, what is the nature of this life of ours? Let us face it: our lives are miserable, laborious, and short. We are born, we are given just so much food as will keep the breath in our bodies, and those of us who are capable of it are forced to work to the last atom of our strength; and the very instant that our usefulness has come to an end we are slaughtered with hideous cruelty. No animal in England knows the meaning of happiness or leisure after he is a year old. No animal in England is free. The life of an animal is misery and slavery: that is the plain truth. ‘But is this simply part of the order of nature? Is it because this land of ours is so poor that it cannot afford a decent life to those who dwell upon it? No, comrades, a thousand times no! The soil of England is fertile, its climate is good, it is capable of affording food in abundance to an enormously greater number of animals than now inhabit it. This single farm of ours would support a dozen horses, twenty cows, hundreds of sheep—and all of them living in a comfort and a dignity that are now almost beyond our imagining. Why then do we continue in this miserable condition? Because nearly the whole of the produce of our labour is stolen from us by human beings. There, comrades, is the answer to all our problems. It is summed up in a single word—Man. Man is the only real enemy we have. Remove Man from the scene, and the root cause of hunger and overwork is abolished for ever. ‘Is it not crystal clear, then, comrades, that all the evils of this life of ours spring from the tyranny of human beings? Only get rid of Man, and the produce of our labour would be our own. Almost overnight we could become rich and free. What then must we do? Why, work night and day, body and soul, for the overthrow of the human race! That is my message to you, comrades: Rebellion! I do not know when that Rebellion will come, it might be in a week or in a hundred years, but I know, as surely as I see this straw beneath my feet, that sooner or later justice will be done. Fix your eyes on that, comrades, throughout the short remainder of your lives! And above all, pass on this message of mine to those who come after you, so that future generations shall carry on the struggle until it is victorious. ‘And remember, comrades, your resolution must never falter. No argument must lead you astray. Never listen when they tell you that Man and the animals have a common interest, that the prosperity of the one is the prosperity of the others. It is all lies. Man serves the interests of no creature except himself. And among us animals let there be perfect unity, perfect comradeship in the struggle. All men are enemies. All animals are comrades.’

© UCLES 2005

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2 Answer two questions.

1

In the passage below the writer describes a childhood memory of wandering around her father’s jewellery shop one evening. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The writer also describes another room in her house. Basing your answer closely on the style of the extract, write the opening description (between 120 and 150 words). [10]

A quite different world opens before me when I only just push at the heavy door that separates the shop from our apartment. It is a door entirely covered with tin. Instead of a latch it has a big key that is always in the lock. In the dark rear shop, into which I tumble first, I grope along the walls as though I were blind. Thick yellow sheets of paper rustle underfoot. Wrapped-up wall clocks rest on the floor here. Until they are hung on walls, they do not move; they lie quiet and soundless, as if buried alive. But the stuffy air of the dark chamber seems swollen with the voices that seep in from the shop. The voices crowd against the high wooden wall and recoil from it again. I stand behind it as in a prison, and listen to what is being said. I want to make out whose voice is talking. And if I catch mother’s voice, I am content. But wait! Is her voice quiet, calm, or, God forbid, angry? Mother’s voice will give me warning, tell me whether to go into the shop or not. Her high tones encourage me. I touch the curtain of the last door, which leads to the shop. I become dizzy at once because of the mirrors and glass. All the clocks are being wound in my ears. The shop is full of glitter on every side. The flashing of silver and gold blinds me like fire; it is reflected in the mirrors, roams over the glass drawers. It dazzles my eyes. Two large gas chandeliers burn high up under the ceiling, humming loudly; the sound becomes a moan of pain. Fire spatters from the close-netted caps on the burners that barely hold back the sparks. There are two high walls entirely lined from top to bottom with glass cupboards. The cupboards reach up to the ceiling and are so solidly built that they seem to have grown into it. Their glass doors slide easily back and forth. Through the glass one can clearly see all the objects on display, almost touch them with one’s hand. On the shelves are goblets, wineglasses, sugar bowls, saucers, braided baskets, milk and water pitchers, fruit bowls. Everything shines and glitters with a newly polished look. Whenever I move, all the objects run after me in reflection. The fire of the lamps and the light of the silver cross each other. Now the silver drowns in a flash of the lamplight, now it re-emerges with an even sharper glitter. On the opposite wall there is another glass cupboard. Behind its panes are objects not of silver but of white metal, and their gleam is much more modest, and quieter. In the center of the shop, on three sides, there rise, as if from the floor itself, three inner walls – long counters with drawers. They divide the shop into two sections. All laid out with glass, full of gold objects, they glitter like magical arks. Little stones of all colors, framed in gold rings, earrings, brooches, bracelets, flicker there like lighted matches. In this air full of fire it is quite impossible to see that the floor is dark. At the front, at the very feet of the customers, entire silver services shine through the glass. And so even the customers’ black shoes glitter and catch reflections along with the silver.

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3 The third wall is dim even by day. Overgrown with long hanging clocks, it looks like a forest of dark trees. There are wall clocks of various sizes. Some have big, squat cases with thick hanging chains supporting heavy copper weights. Other wall 45 clocks have narrower, slimmer bodies. Their chains are lighter, more movable, with smaller weights attached. In the bellies of all of them pointed pendulums dangle like swords, swinging restlessly back and forth. Among the large wall clocks smaller ones are hiding, and even tiny ones; one can see only the white dials, their round moon faces. They have no wooden bellies, 50 and their chain legs move in the open, before everyone’s eyes, up and down. The whole wall of clocks sighs and breathes heavily. From each box come smothered groans, as though at every moment someone were being killed on the dark wall.

© UCLES 2006

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4 2

The passage below takes a comic look at patriotism. It is set in a fictional place called Lake Wobegon in America and describes a local custom known as ‘The Living Flag’, an annual ceremony created by shop owner Herman Hochstetter to celebrate the end of World War II. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) As part of his autobiography, Herman writes a chapter outlining his achievement in creating a ceremony and why it began to go wrong. Basing your answer closely on the material of the extract, write the opening to the chapter (between 120 and 150 words). [10]

On patriotic days, flags flew all over; there were flags on the tall poles, flags on the short, flags in the brackets on the pillars and the porches, and if you were flagless you could expect to hear from Herman. His hairy arm around your shoulder, his poochlike face close to yours, he would say how proud he was that so many people were proud of their country, leaving you to see the obvious, that you were a 5 gap in the ranks. In June 1944, the day after D-Day, a salesman from Fisher Hat called on Herman and offered a good deal on red and blue baseball caps. ‘Do you have white also?’ Herman asked. The salesman thought that white caps could be had for the same wonderful price. Herman ordered two hundred red, two hundred white, and 10 one hundred blue. By the end of the year, he still had four hundred and eighty-six caps. The inspiration of the Living Flag was born from that overstock. On June 14, 1945, a month after V-E Day, a good crowd assembled in front of the Central Building in response to Herman’s ad in the paper: Honor ‘AMERICA’ June 14 at 4 p.m. Be proud of “Our Land & People”. Be part of the “Living Flag”. Don’t let it be said that Lake Wobegon was “Too Busy”. Be on time. 4 p.m. “Sharp”.

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His wife Louise handed out the caps, and Herman stood on a stepladder and told the people where to stand. He lined up the reds and whites into stripes, then got the blues into their square. Mr. Hanson climbed up on the roof of the Central Building and took a photograph, they sang the national anthem, and then the Living Flag dispersed. The photograph appeared in the paper the next week. Herman kept the caps. In the flush of victory, people were happy to do as they were told and stand in place, but in 1946 and 1947, dissension cropped up in the ranks: people complained about the heat and about Herman – what gave him the idea he could order them around? ‘People! Please! I need your attention! You blue people, keep your hats on! Please! Stripe number 4, you’re sagging! You reds, you’re up here! We got too many white people, we need more red ones! Let’s do this without talking, people! I can’t get you straight if you keep moving around! Some of you are not paying attention! Everybody shut up! Please!’ One cause of resentment was the fact that none of them got to see the flag they were in; the picture in the paper was black and white. Only Herman and Mr. Hanson got to see the real Flag, and some boys too short to be needed down below. People wanted a chance to go up to the roof and witness the spectacle for themselves. ‘How can you go up there if you’re supposed to be down here?’ Herman said. ‘You go up to look, you got nothing to look at. Isn’t it enough to know that you’re doing your part?’

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5 On Flag Day, 1949, just as Herman said, ‘That’s it! Hold it now!’ one of the reds made a break for it – dashed up four flights of stairs to the roof and leaned over and had a long look. Even with the hole he had left behind, it was a magnificent sight. The Living Flag filled the street below. A perfect Flag! The reds so brilliant! He couldn’t take his eyes off it. ‘Get down here! We need a picture!’ Herman yelled up at 45 him. ‘Unbelievable! I can’t describe it!’ he said. So then everyone had to have a look. ‘No!’ Herman said, but they took a vote and it was unanimous. One by one, members of the Living Flag went up to the roof and admired it. It was marvellous! It brought tears to the eyes, it made one reflect on this great country and on Lake Wobegon’s place in it. One wanted to stand up 50 there all afternoon and just drink it in. So, as the first hour passed, and only forty of the five hundred had been to the top, the others got more and more restless. ‘Hurry up! Quit dawdling! You’ve seen it! Get down here and give someone else a chance!’ Herman sent people up in groups of four, and then ten, but after two hours, the Living Flag became the Sitting Flag and then began to erode, as the members who 55 had had a look thought about heading home to supper, which infuriated the ones who hadn’t. ‘Ten more minutes!’ Herman cried, but ten minutes became twenty and thirty, and people snuck off and the Flag that remained for the last viewer was a Flag shot through by cannon fire.

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6 3

In the passage below the writer describes how the ship he was travelling on was affected by the weather. (a) You have been asked to contribute an article to a travel magazine. Basing your answer closely on the style and structure of the passage, write the opening (between 120 and 150 words) to the article about another journey by a different means of transport. [10] (b) Compare the style and structure of your piece with those of the original extract.

They laid the tables in our saloon for dinner. We sat tightly packed at benches. There were three or four small children who were fed at the table. Two ragged servants cooked and served a very bad dinner. The captain collected the money. Presently he passed round a list of those to whom he had given cabins. I was not among them, nor was the American missionary nor any of the Greeks. We should have slipped him a tip with our tickets, I learned later. About a dozen of us were left without accommodation. Six wise men laid themselves out full length on the saloon benches immediately after dinner and established their claim for the night. The rest of us sat on our luggage on the deck. There were no seats or deck-chairs. Luckily it was a fine night, warm, unclouded, and windless. I spread an overcoat on the deck, placed a canvas grip under my head as a pillow and composed myself for sleep. The missionary found two little wooden chairs and sat stiff backed, wrapped in a rug, with his feet up supporting a book of Bible-stories on his knees. As we got up steam, brilliant showers of wood sparks rose from the funnel; soon after midnight we sailed into the lake; a gentle murmur of singing came from the bows. In a few minutes I was asleep. I woke up suddenly an hour later and found myself shivering with cold. I stood up to put on my overcoat and immediately found myself thrown against the rail. At the same moment I saw the missionary’s two chairs tip over sideways and him sprawl on the deck. A large pile of hand luggage upset and slid towards the side. There was a tinkle of broken china from the captain’s quarters. All this coincided with a torrential downpour of rain and a tearing wind. It was followed in a second or two by a blaze of lightning and shattering detonation. A chatter of alarm went up from the lower deck, and various protests of disturbed livestock. In the half-minute which it took us to collect our luggage and get into the saloon we were saturated with rain. And here we were in scarcely better conditions, for the windows, when raised, proved not to be of glass, but of wire gauze. The wind tore through them, water poured in and slopped from side to side. Women passengers came up squealing from their cabins below, with colourless, queasy faces. The saloon became intolerably overcrowded. We sat as we had at dinner, packed in rows round the two tables. The wind was so strong that it was impossible, single-handed, to open the door. Those who were ill – the American missionary was the first to go under – were obliged to remain in their places. The shriek of the wind was so loud that conversation was impossible; we just clung there, pitched and thrown, now out of our seats, now on top of one another; occasionally someone would fall asleep and wake up instantly with his head thumped hard against table or wall. It needed constant muscular effort to avoid injury. Vile retchings occurred on every side. Women whimpered at their husbands for support. The children yelled. We were all of us dripping and shivering. At last everyone grew quieter as alarm subsided and desperation took its place. They sat there, rigid and glum, gazing straight before them or supporting their heads in their hands until, a little before dawn, the wind dropped and rain ceased beating in; then

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7 some of them fell asleep, and others slunk back to their cabins. I went out on deck. It was still extremely cold, and the little boat bobbed and wallowed hopelessly in a heavy sea, but the storm was clearly over. Soon a green and silver dawn broke over the lake; it was misty all round us, and the orange sparks from the funnel were just 45 visible against the whiter sky. The two stewards emerged with chattering teeth and attempted to set things in order in the saloon, dragging out rolls of sodden matting and swabbing up the water-logged floor. Huddled groups on the lower deck began to disintegrate and a few co*cks crowed; there was a clatter of breakfast cups and a 50 welcome smell of coffee.

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2 Answer two questions.

1

The passage below is an extract from the first speech given by the American President Franklin D. Roosevelt. In it, he urges people to have hope for the future despite the economic situation the country is in. (a) Basing your answer closely on the language and style of the passage, write the opening (between 120–150 words) to a speech in which you try to persuade an audience that a particularly difficult situation can be overcome. [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original extract.

This is a day of national consecration, and I am certain that my fellow-Americans expect that on my induction into the Presidency I will address them with a candor and a decision which the present situation of our nation impels. This is pre-eminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So first of all let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself – nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. In every dark hour of our national life a leadership of frankness and vigor has met with that understanding and support of the people themselves which is essential to victory. I am convinced that you will again give that support to leadership in these critical days. In such a spirit on my part and on yours we face our common difficulties. They concern, thank God, only material things. Values have shrunken to fantastic levels; taxes have risen; our ability to pay has fallen, government of all kinds is faced by serious curtailment of income; the means of exchange are frozen in the currents of trade; the withered leaves of industrial enterprise lie on every side; farmers find no markets for their produce; the savings of many years in thousands of families are gone. More important, a host of unemployed citizens face the grim problem of existence, and an equally great number toil with little return. Only a foolish optimist can deny the dark realities of the moment. Yet our distress comes from no failure of substance. We are stricken by no plague of locusts. Compared with the perils which our forefathers conquered because they believed and were not afraid, we have still much to be thankful for. Nature still offers her bounty and human efforts have multiplied it. Plenty is at our doorstep, but a generous use of it languishes in the very sight of the supply. Primarily, this is because the rulers of the exchange of mankind’s goods have failed through their own stubbornness and their own incompetence, have admitted that failure and abdicated. Practices of the unscrupulous money changers stand indicted in the court of public opinion, rejected by the hearts and minds of men. True, they have tried, but their efforts have been cast in the pattern of an outworn tradition. Faced by failure of credit, they have proposed only the lending of more money. The joy and moral stimulation of work no longer must be forgotten in the mad chase of evanescent profits. These dark days will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto but to minister to ourselves and to our fellow-men.

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3 Recognition of the falsity of material wealth as the standard of success goes hand in hand with the abandonment of the false belief that public office and high political position are to be valued only by the standards of pride of place and personal profit; and there must be an end to a conduct in banking and in business which too often has given to a sacred trust the likeness of callous and selfish wrongdoing. Small wonder that confidence languishes, for it thrives only on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection, on unselfish performance. Without them it cannot live. Restoration calls, however, not for changes in ethics alone. This nation asks for action, and action now. Stripped of the lure of profit by which to induce our people to follow their false leadership, they have resorted to exhortations, pleading tearfully for restored confidence. They know only the rules of a generation of self-seekers. They have no vision, and when there is no vision the people perish. The money changers have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization. We may now restore that temple to the ancient truths. The measure of the restoration lies in the extent to which we apply social values more noble than mere monetary profit. Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort.

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4 2

The passage below describes a hotel with a particularly distinctive image. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The hotel decides to publish a brochure for potential customers. Basing your answer closely on the material of the extract, write the opening (between 120–150 words) to the brochure. [10]

He found himself in a tall brilliant lobby. Thick wands of sunlight shone through vast overhead windows onto a marble floor. There appeared to be numerous entrances. The one through which he had emerged was clearly not the most significant. Various doormen and bellhops stood around in stylised cavalry uniforms: boots, hats, gold epaulettes, even dinky sabres at their belts. At the rear of the lobby was what appeared to be a dense wood of twenty-foot high trees. In front of this forest was a long reception desk. This Henderson approached with due reverence and awe. The experience was, he thought, akin to appearing at Heaven’s gate with the sin-virtue equation still in balance. ‘Dores,’ he said to the tanned cavalryman. ‘D,O,R,E,S. I have a reservation.’ ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Monopark 5000.’ He tapped out the name on a computer keyboard. There was a whirring and clicking and the machine fed out a piece of plastic with holes punched in it. ‘What’s this?’ Henderson asked. ‘A credit card?’ ‘Your key, sir. Need some help with your case?’ The smile never budged. ‘No thanks. I can manage.’ ‘You are in suite 35J. Follow this path,’ he gestured at an opening in the forest wall, ‘go through the atrium and take the scenic elevator to the thirty-fifth floor. Enjoy your stay in Monopark 5000.’ ‘Right.’ Henderson picked up his bag and looked dubiously at the path, which was signposted ‘To the atrium’. He felt like an explorer leaving base camp. ‘Goodbye,’ he said to the man and set off. He had imagined that the trees were merely a decorative screen but he was wrong. He found himself in a copse, a grove, a veritable spinney of weeping figs, silver birches and stands of bamboo. A soft greenish light filtered down from above, xylophonic music burbled from hidden speakers. Other paths bifurcated from his. ‘Convention reservation’ he saw, ‘To the Indian village’ and ‘Swimming Creek’. These signs were deliberately ‘olde west’: chunks of varnished wood with the message burnt on with a branding iron. The frontier theme was enhanced by the sudden appearance from behind a tree of a waitress in fringed buckskin waistcoat and miniskirt. Henderson gave a shrug of alarm. There were stripes of warpaint on her cheeks and forehead. ‘co*cktails, sir?’ she asked. ‘At the Indian village.’ ‘What? Oh, no. I’m looking for the atrium.’ ‘Keep right on to the end of this path.’ She slipped away into the trees. He followed her instructions and broke out into a towering atrium some twelve or fourteen stories high. Before him stretched a lake, blocking his way, some thirty yards across, dotted with islands furnished with seats and sprouting plants. Over on the left of the far bank was a cluster of wigwams which on closer inspection turned out to be a large restaurant and bar area. On the balconied far wall, a dozen scenic elevators rose up and down, some of them disappearing into holes in the roof like silent glass scarabs. Henderson let out a spontaneous gasp of surprise. He had heard of this new breed of American hotel: the hotel as wonderland, as secular cathedral, as theme park – but his imagination had been deficient. Plants grew everywhere, fountains splashed, the light was pale, neutral and shadow-free. © UCLES 2007

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5 A cowboy wandered over and handed him a wooden paddle. ‘Good God, what’s this for?’ ‘For the canoe, sir.’ Henderson looked to his right. Sure enough, a dozen canoes were tethered to 50 the concrete bank. ‘Do you mean I’ve got to paddle my way across to the elevators?’ ‘I can do it for you, sir, but a lot of our guests like to make their own way.’ He saw an intrepid couple set off, little shrieks of delight coming from the wife. 55 ‘Oh. Right.’ The cowboy let him down to a canoe, deposited his bag in the bow and helped him in. Henderson settled down. ‘Listen are you sure these things are stable? Perhaps you’d better –’ The cowboy pushed him off. ‘Enjoy your stay at Monopark 5000, sir.’

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6 3

The passage below was written by a European journalist while he was based in Hong Kong. In it, he describes to his newborn son, Daniel, his thoughts and feelings about Daniel’s birth. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Daniel’s mother briefly records her reactions to the birth of her son in her diary – but she mainly expresses concern about the behaviour and state of mind of her husband. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening to her diary entry (between 120–150 words). [10] My dear son, it is six o’clock in the morning on the island of Hong Kong. You are asleep cradled in my left arm and I am learning the art of one-handed typing. Your mother, more tired yet more happy than I’ve ever known her, is sound asleep in the room next door and there is soft quiet in our apartment. Since you arrived, days have melted into night and back again and we are learning a new grammar, a long sentence whose punctuation marks are feeding and winding and nappy changing and these occasional moments of quiet. When you’re older we’ll tell you that you were born in Britain’s last Asian colony in the lunar year of the pig and that when we brought you home, the staff of our apartment block gathered to wish you well. ‘It’s a boy, so lucky, so lucky. We Chinese love boys,’ they told us. One man said you were the first baby to be born in the block in the year of the pig. This, he told us, was good Feng Shui, in other words a positive sign for the building and everyone who lived there. Naturally your mother and I were only too happy to believe that. We had wanted you and waited for you, imagined you and dreamed about you and now that you are here no dream can do justice to you. Outside the window, below us on the harbour, the ferries are ploughing back and forth to Kowloon. Millions are already up and moving about and the sun is slanting through the tower blocks and out on to the flat silver waters of the South China Sea. I can see the contrail of a jet over Lamma Island and, somewhere out there, the last stars flickering towards the other side of the world. We have called you Daniel Patrick but I’ve been told by my Chinese friends that you should have a Chinese name as well and this glorious dawn sky makes me think we’ll call you Son of the Eastern Star. So that later, when you and I are far from Asia, perhaps standing on a beach some evening, I can point at the sky and tell you of the Orient and the times and the people we knew there in the last years of the twentieth century. Your coming has turned me upside down and inside out. So much that seemed essential to me has, in the past few days, taken on a different colour. Like many foreign correspondents I know, I have lived a life that, on occasion, has veered close to the edge: war zones, natural disasters, darkness in all its shapes and forms. In a world of insecurity and ambition and ego, it’s easy to be drawn in, to take chances with our lives, to believe that what we do and what people say about us is reason enough to gamble with death. Now, looking at your sleeping face, inches away from me, listening to your occasional sigh and gurgle, I wonder how I could have ever thought glory and prizes and praise were sweeter than life. And it’s also true that I am pained, perhaps haunted is a better word, by the memory, suddenly so vivid now, of each suffering child I have come across on my journeys. To tell you the truth, it’s nearly too much to bear at this moment to even think of children being hurt and abused and killed. And yet looking at you, the images come flooding back. Ten-year-old Andi Mikail dying from napalm burns on a hillside in Eritrea, how his voice cried out, growing ever more faint when the wind blew dust on to his wounds. The two brothers, Domingo and Juste, in Menongue, southern Angola. Juste, two years old and blind, dying from malnutrition, being carried on seven-year-old Domingo’s back. And Domingo’s words to me, ‘He was nice before, but now he has the hunger.’ © UCLES 2007

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7 Last October, in Afghanistan, when you were growing inside your mother, I met Sharja, aged twelve. Motherless, fatherless, guiding me through the grey ruins of her home, everything was gone, she told me. And I knew that, for all her tender years, 50 she had learned more about loss than I would likely understand in a lifetime. Daniel, these memories explain some of the fierce protectiveness I feel for you, the tenderness and the occasional moments of blind terror when I imagine anything happening to you. But there is something more, a story from long ago that I will tell you face to face, father to son, when you are older. It’s a very personal story but it’s part of the picture. It has to do with the long lines of blood and family, about our lives 55 and how we can get lost in them and, if we’re lucky, find our way out again into the sunlight.

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2 Answer two questions.

1

In the passage below the writer takes a comic look at how a man whom he would expect to be ashamed of his situation appears to prosper and grow in status. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The writer publishes a further portrait of another type of character who provokes strong feelings in him. Basing your answer closely on the style of the extract, write the opening (between 120-150 words) of his description. [10]

The bankrupt man dances. Perhaps, on other occasions, he sings. Certainly he spends money in restaurants and tips generously. In what sense, then, is he bankrupt? He has been declared so. He has declared himself so. He returns from the city agitated and pale, complaining of hours spent with the lawyers. Then he pours himself a drink. How does he pay for the liquor inside the drink, if he is bankrupt? He is dancing at the Chilblains Relief Association Fund Ball. His heels kick high. The mauve spotlight caresses his shoulders, then the gold. His wife’s hair glistens like a beehive of tinsel above her bare shoulders and dulcet neck. Where does she get the money, to pay the hairdresser to tease and singe and set her so dazzlingly? We are afraid to ask but cannot tear our eyes from the dancing couple. The bankrupt man buys himself a motorcycle. He is going to hotdog it all the way to Santa Barbara and back. He has a bankrupt sister in Santa Barbara. Also, there are business details to be cleared up along the way, in Pittsburgh, South Bend, Dodge City, Santa Fe, and Palm Springs. Being bankrupt is an expansionist process; it generates ever new horizons. We all want to dance with the bankrupt man’s wife. Sexual health swirls from her like meadow mist, she sparkles head to toe, her feet are shod in slippers of crystal. ‘How do you manage to keep up ap –?’ We drown our presumptuous question murmurously in her corsage; her breasts billow, violet and gold, about our necktie. The bankrupt man is elected to high civic office and declines, due to press of business. He can be seen on the streets, rushing everywhere, important-looking papers flying from his hands. He is being sued for astronomical amounts. He wears now only the trendiest clothes – unisex jumpsuits, detachable porcelain collars, coat sleeves that really unbutton. He goes to the same hairdresser as his wife. His children are all fat. This galls us. We wish to destroy him, this clown of legerity1, who bounces higher and higher off the net of laws that would enmesh us, who weightlessly spiders up the rigging to the dizzying spotlit tip of the tent-space and stands there in a glittering trapeze suit. We spread ugly rumors, we mutter that he is not bankrupt at all, that he is as sound as the pound, as the dollar, that his bankruptcy is a sham. He hears of the rumour and in a note, with embossed letterhead, he challenges us to meet him on West Main Street, by the corner of the Corn Exchange, under the iron statue of Cyrus Shenanigan, the great Civil War profiteer. We accept the challenge. We experience butterflies in the stomach. We go look at our face in the mirror. It is craven and shrivelled, embittered by ungenerous thoughts. Comes the dawn. Without parked cars, West Main Street seems immensely wide. The bankrupt man’s shoulders eclipse the sun. He takes his paces, turns, swiftly reaches down and pulls out the lining of both pants pockets. Verily, they are empty. We fumble at our own, and the rattle of silver is drowned in the triumphant roar of the witnessing mob. We would have been torn limb from limb had not the bankrupt man with characteristic magnanimity extended to us a protective embrace, © UCLES 2008

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3 redolent of cologne and smoking turf and wood violets. In the locker room, we hear the bankrupt singing. His baritone strips the tiles 45 from the walls like cascading dominoes. He has just shot a minus sixty-seven, turning the old course record inside out. He ascends because he transcends. He deals from the bottom of the deck. He builds castles in air. He makes America grow. 1legerity

© UCLES 2008

– cunning, trickery

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4 2

The extract below is taken from an autobiography and describes the narrator’s first visit to a circus. He is accompanied by his less than enthusiastic older brother. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) In his own autobiography the narrator’s brother describes his memory of this experience. Basing your answer closely on the original extract, write the opening section (between 120150 words) of his version of events. [10]

When the day came for the early-evening first show, my mother had not changed her mind and my brother had not been able to talk his way out of taking me. His two friends had loyally agreed to suffer the boredom and indignity with him and all four of us made our way to the field where the Big Top had been put up. As we passed through the gate into the playing-field, the mingled scents of crushed grass and canvas gave an extra tingle of excitement. There was a pleasurable agony of waiting in the queue to get in before we finally entered the tent where the air was thick with the smell of sawdust and animals. My brother and his friends draped themselves languidly along the bench and discussed their foreign trip with an air of ostentatious indifference to the ring before them and the trapeze above. I sat alongside my brother with my jacket rolled up beside me so I’d have more room to see if someone big sat down in front of me. The show began when a tall, handsome Ringmaster with moustaches and whip and top hat announced the first act and the clowns came on. They fell over, they burst balloons, they poured buckets of water over themselves and each other; they threatened the audience, fell over, threw pies at each other and their trousers fell down. They were outrageous, hilarious, anarchic, entrancing. I loved them. I roared and I hooted and I guffawed and shrieked. My brother and his friends watched with a stony and cynical aloofness. Then the acrobats performed dizzy deeds of daredevilment that put my heart in my mouth and my mouth into a state of fixed openness. The lissom-limbed lovelies and the lean-thighed men swooped and spun and clasped and swung until my chest ached with holding my breath. There were other acts too, and a shrewd observer might have noticed that the clowns and acrobats and animal-trainers all bore a curiously shared identity, but I was not a shrewd observer. The best act of all was the last one, and it had me enthralled. The Ringmaster announced Chief Cochise, the Apache warrior, the bare-back riding lethal expert with the bow and arrow. As his words died away there came thundering into the ring a magnificent figure, resplendent in head-dress and leggings, his face savagely streaked with warpaint and his muscular, fronded legs gripping the sides of a noble, piebald stallion. He whooped and war-cried his way round the ring and my whole heart went out to him. He was fierce and bronzed; he was frightening and exciting: I had never seen anything so stirring before. With a yell and a flourish he began to circle the central pole, loosing arrow after arrow into the balloons suspended there. Horse-sweat and sawdust, hoof-beats and balloon-bursts filled the next magical minutes until, with a wave and a blood-curdling, triumphant yell he vanished on his valiant steed. I cheered myself hoarse and I clapped until it hurt, hoping the heroic Cochise would appear once more, but he didn’t. It was the last act and the audience was leaving and I had to scramble to keep up with my brother and his friends. As I worked my way through the jostle of the crowd, my head was full of Chief Cochise. Gone were the dreams of being sheriff or homesteader – gone were the dreams of being lone shotgun on the rickety stage. From now on and forever, it was Chief Cochise and the bareback archer who was the idol of my dreams. My brother and his friends, having waited long enough for me to catch up, moved ahead again slowly. They had just shared a light from my brother’s cupped hands around his new gas lighter when I reached them, breathless with my efforts © UCLES 2008

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5 and my memory. I adjusted my pace and fell in behind them. My brother was talking between drags on the cigarette which he held between his thumb and his third finger. ‘What a washout,’ he was saying. ‘What a pathetic washout. Did you see that 50 phoney Indian at the end? He hardly hit any of the balloons and you could hear someone bursting them behind the flap to make it sound as if he hit them. And he wasn’t riding bareback – you could see the saddle if you looked.’ ‘Yes,’ said one of his friends. ‘And he wasn’t a real Indian anyway. I reckon he 55 was that first clown with make-up on.’

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6 3

The passage below describes two English writers’ experience of renting a room in Spain from a French woman they meet on a bus. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The French woman decides to advertise her property in a tourist brochure. She wishes to describe its surroundings and facilities in the best possible light. She asks you to write the advertisem*nt. Basing your answer closely on the material of the extract, write the opening section (between 120-150 words) of the advertisem*nt. [10] Her house, facing the cool blue blaze of the bay, was more than we had dreamed; we fell in love immediately with the smallest room, its french windowdoors opening onto a balcony-terrace, perfect for writing: vines wove green leaves in the railing; a palm and a pine tree grew alongside shading one side, and a slatted bamboo awning could be drawn out to form a little roof as shelter from the direct noon sun. We knocked her down from the first price to 100 pesetas a night, figuring we could save immensely by doing our own marketing and cooking. From her rapid babble of French, mangled by a strong Spanish accent, we gathered that she would trade Spanish lessons for English lessons, that she had been a teacher, and lived in France for three years. As soon as we moved in, it became clear that Madame was not used to running a maison1 for boarders. There were three other empty rooms on the second floor which she evidently hoped to let out, for she spoke continually of how we must manage for ‘les autres’, when they arrived. She had amassed a great quantity of white china plates, cups and saucers in the formal dining room, and an equally large amount of aluminium pots and pans hung on hooks lining the kitchen walls, but there was absolutely no silver tableware. Senora seemed shocked that we did not carry knives, forks and spoons about with us, but brought out, finally, three elaborate place-settings of her best silver which she laid out, saying that this was only for the three of us, and she would soon go to Alicante to buy some simple kitchen silver for us and put her best silver away. Also, the problem of a small bathroom, fine for the two of us, but hardly fitted for eight, and the trouble of arranging cooking and dinner schedules on one petrol burner, seemed not to have occurred to her either. We held our breath and wished fervently that she would have no customers when she put up the sign: Apartments for rent, on our balcony-terrace. We had, at least, made sure that she would not use our balcony, which adjoined another larger room, as a selling point, by explaining that it was the only place we could write in peace, since our room was too small for a table, and the beach and garden were fine for vacationers, but not for writers’ workrooms. Occasionally, from our balcony (where we soon took to eating meals: steaming mugs of café con leche in the morning, a cold picnic of bread, cheese, tomatoes and onions, fruit and milk at noon, and a cooked dinner of meat or fish with vegetables, and wine, at twilight under the moon and stars –) we could hear Senora conducting people around the house, speaking in her rapid staccato French. But during the first week, although she had conducted several potential roomers about, no one had come. We had fun hazarding on the objections they might make: no hot water, one small bathroom, only an antique petrol burner – with such modern hotels in town, probably her price was too high: what wealthy people would be willing to market and cook? who but poor students & writers like us? Perhaps the roomers might decide to eat out in the expensive restaurants; that was a possibility. We had found out, too, that although she had made wild, extravagant gestures when showing us about the house – pointing to an empty ice-less icebox, motioning out an imaginary electrical machine for making the freezing shower-water warm – that none of these comforts were forthcoming. We found the water from the taps was unpalatable and strange to taste; when the Senora miraculously produced a glass pitcher full of delicious © UCLES 2008

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7 sparkling water for our first dinner, we asked incredulous if it came from the taps. She burbled on evasively about the health-giving qualities of the water, and it was a full day before I caught her drawing up a pail of it from a cistern sunk deep in the kitchen, covered by a blue board. 1maison

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2 Answer two questions.

1

The passage below describes the writer’s experience in Burma when he was serving as a police officer at a time when the British ruled the country. He has been ordered to deal with a possible threat posed by an elephant. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later that day, a member of the crowd records her thoughts and feelings in her diary about how the officer and the crowd behaved. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening section (between 120–150 words) of the diary entry. [10]

But I did not want to shoot the elephant. I watched him beating his bunch of grass against his knees, with that preoccupied grandmotherly air that elephants have. It seemed to me that it would be murder to shoot him. At that age I was not squeamish about killing animals, but I had never shot an elephant and never wanted to. (Somehow it always seems worse to kill a large animal). Besides, there was the beast’s owner to be considered. Alive, the elephant was worth at least a hundred pounds; dead, he would only be worth the value of his tusks, five pounds, possibly. But I had got to act quickly. I turned to some experienced-looking Burmans who had been there when we arrived, and asked them how the elephant had been behaving. They all said the same thing: he took no notice of you if you left him alone, but he might charge if you went too close to him. It was perfectly clear to me what I ought to do. I ought to walk up to within, say, twenty-five yards of the elephant and test his behaviour. If he charged, I could shoot; if he took no notice of me, it would be safe to leave him until the mahout* came back. But also I knew that I was going to do no such thing. I was a poor shot with a rifle and the ground was soft mud into which one would sink at every step. If the elephant charged and I missed him, I should have about as much chance as a toad under a steam-roller. There was only one alternative. I shoved the cartridges into the magazine and lay down on the road to get a better aim. The crowd grew very still, and a deep, low, happy sigh, as of people who see the theatre curtain go up at last, breathed from innumerable throats. They were going to have their bit of fun after all. The rifle was a beautiful German thing with cross-hair sights. I did not then know that in shooting an elephant one would shoot to cut an imaginary bar running from ear-hole to ear-hole. I ought, therefore, as the elephant was sideways on, to have aimed straight at his ear-hole; actually I aimed several inches in front of this, thinking the brain would be further forward. When I pulled the trigger I did not hear the bang or feel the kick – one never does when a shot goes home – but I heard the devilish roar of glee that went up from the crowd. In that instant, in too short a time, one would have thought, even for the bullet to get there, a mysterious, terrible change had come over the elephant. He neither stirred nor fell, but every line of his body had altered. He looked suddenly stricken, shrunken, immensely old, as though the frightful impact of the bullet had paralysed him without knocking him down. At last, after what seemed a long time – it might have been five seconds, I dare say – he sagged flabbily to his knees. His mouth slobbered. An enormous senility seemed to have settled upon him. One could have imagined him thousands of years old. I fired again into the same spot. At the second shot he did not collapse but climbed with desperate slowness to his feet and stood weakly upright, with legs sagging and head drooping. I fired a third time. That was the shot that did for him. You could see the agony of it jolt his whole body and knock the last remnant of strength from his legs. But in falling he seemed for a moment to rise, for as his hind legs collapsed beneath him he seemed to tower upward like © UCLES 2009

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3 a huge rock toppling, his trunk reaching skyward like a tree. He trumpeted, for the first and only time. And then down he came, his belly towards me, with a crash that seemed to shake the ground even where I lay. I got up. The Burmans were already racing past me across the mud. It was obvious that the elephant would never rise again, but he was not dead. He was breathing very rhythmically with long rattling gasps, his great mound of a side painfully rising and falling. His mouth was wide open – I could see far down into caverns of pale pink throat. I waited a long time for him to die, but his breathing did not weaken. Finally I fired my two remaining shots into the spot where I thought his heart must be. The thick blood welled out of him like red velvet, but still he did not die. His body did not even jerk when the shots hit him, the tortured breathing continued without a pause. He was dying, very slowly and in great agony, but in some world remote from me where not even a bullet could damage him further. I felt that I had got to put an end to that dreadful noise. It seemed dreadful to see the great beast lying there, powerless to move and yet powerless to die, and not even to be able to finish him. I sent back for my small rifle and poured shot after shot into his heart and down his throat. They seemed to make no impression. The tortured gasps continued as steadily as the ticking of a clock. In the end I could not stand it any longer and went away.

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*mahout: an elephant owner or keeper

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4 2

The passage below describes the writer’s experience of visiting Venice, in Italy. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) A travel guide invites the writer to contribute an article about another tourist location. The guide’s editor wants the writer to convey her detailed impressions of the atmosphere of the place. Basing your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract, write the opening (between 120–150 words) of the article. [10]

There, next to the shuttered kiosk, was the first bridge: stepped, the black night water slopping beneath it, a rakish police launch moored to one side. Beyond, halfvisible through the thick fog, lay a stone path, a portico, another bridge. At that moment, a group of students came running across the bridge, through the portico, down the stone path. It was two in the morning, but I could see immediately that there was nothing sinister or fugitive in their speed: this was high spirits. Human, energetic, timeless: they could have been Capulets*. Their voices filled the air, stilled by the fog. Then they were gone in a tumble of footsteps which fell away like blown leaves. At last: the city of voices and footsteps. I’d waited forty years for this. The next day, somewhere near the post office, I found myself following a path between high buildings. It became a dark, covered alleyway; I stopped, for perhaps the sixth time, to check my map. A man with a stick was following me, swaddled in a heavy black coat; I could tell at a glance his soul was unquiet. As he clattered past me, he muttered what sounded like curses. His nose was aquiline*; his face imperious and sinewy. He wore sandals, though; his feet were bare. I watched him hobble into the darkness, bent on endurance, and realised that nothing in this field of vision would have altered in five hundred years. The paving slabs, the building stones, the January gloom, the human figure wrapped in dark wool and clutching a wood stick: I was gazing into the past. Venice is time travel. The fog hushed what was already a quiet city further; you could hear the city’s fearless sparrows squabble with each other in the vaporetto* shelters. Eventually a lumbering boat would loom, groaning, reverse and thump the wharf posts. There would be an exchange of shuffling, muffled passengers, and it would wallow off again. The only trace the great Greek ferries left now was a dull moan; fog had swaddled up their improbable bulk as they inched across the basin and down the Giudecca towards the Maritime Station. Boatmen still sing in Venice, since there’s a chance the song will be heard. A gondola is black and lacquered, like a grand piano; the passengers sat on little thrones beneath thick, embroidered blankets, mute with the strangeness of it all. The top of the Campanile in San Marco had disappeared into the fog, and at night the floodlights which were meant to strafe it and play on the arched façade of the basilica floundered lamely in the pewter vapour. On Saturday morning – was it morning? – I seemed to be almost alone in the Piazza. Then the bells began. The fog didn’t snuff the sound so much as trap it at ground level. Bell strike melted into bell strike, amplified by the stone slabs under my feet; I began to feel the resonance in my bones, my liver, my heart. Any louder, I thought, and internal bleeding might begin. Perhaps I would be the first tourist ever to be murdered by the bells of San Marco. I hurried into Florian’s, where not only could I choose my table, but also sit, if I wished, in an entirely empty room. A white-coated waiter brought me chocolate as thick as tree resin. I ate it rather than drank it, revelling in its bittersweet luxury, looking out at the January misery of the pigeon-food salesmen. Unless your stay is very short, too, the fog will eventually lift. The noise and horizons will return; you will see that Venice has gasworks and pylons and pollution. The insidious damp cold will ebb a little, as will the taste of the past. The bells will no longer threaten to break your frame, and you will see that you are not alone with your maps and your guidebook; you will realise, indeed, that Venice has no such © UCLES 2009

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5 thing as out-of-season. The rewards of a sunlit Venice have been amply conveyed elsewhere. As you watch the barges and lighters swarm across the basin, skipping between the serenity of San Giorgio and the sensuality of La Salute as they deliver the post and the beer and lug the vegetables of Catania and Umbria up to the Rialto, 50 you’ll find the busy pretty intricacy of the scene has barely changed, only the means of propulsion. Even fogless, there is no better place for those with an antipathy to the modern than Venice.

*Capulets: a family in the play Romeo and Juliet, also set in Italy *aquiline: hooked *vaporetto: a ferry

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6 3

In the extract below the writer describes her shopping habits and the feelings they bring out in her. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The writer’s mother has become concerned about her daughter’s great interest in buying old clothes. In a letter to a friend she outlines her thoughts and feelings about it. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening to the letter (between 120–150 words). [10] I feel history when I walk into a vintage-clothes store. Sometimes, I can see history too. I imagine the heel catching on that ripped tweed skirt and the young woman fighting tears as she rushes past her annoyed-but-patient father to change. She climbs two steps at a time, her mind already rifling through her sister’s closet for a plan B outfit. He reaches for another cigarette, exhaling any hopes of that steadying drink before meeting “the man of her dreams.” I imagine the wine splashing on that filmy high-neck pale-pink blouse and the perfumed and powdered owner laughing it off, her attentions on the handsome soldier courting her. The next day, she hugs the blouse close to her heaving heart, soaking in the memories of their one evening together – the short sweet memories that will have to sustain her through the lonely months ahead. I see the flushed cheeks and shining eyes of the young-and-in-love bride as her new husband secures this string of pearls around her neck. Her reflection in the tall moonlit looking glass shows a girl becoming a woman. He sees it too … There’s romance in vintage. There’s courting, love, sex, sadness, and pain in vintage. It’s not always obvious from the dusty crowded windows, but it’s there – the weddings, the funerals, the parties, the disgraces, the secrets, the celebrations, the lives. Sometimes, the storied pieces call to me from across the street, forcing me to “just take a quick look.” Other times, I have to comb and climb through overcrowded racks of patterned polyesters, 80s mistakes, and moth eaten wool. But when I find that special something, I get goose bumps. In evaluating the condition of a piece, I can’t help but wonder at the life it had before me. Sometimes the past lingers in the fabric, the secrets stuffed deep in the pockets or shoved up stiff sleeves. Holding a dress to the light, you can often see the form of its previous owner. It’s most obvious with vintage shoes, where in the scuffed soles, the worn heels, and the wrinkled tow-cap, you can see the footprint of a path once walked. I live in a New York City apartment so, unfortunately, I can’t adopt every little embroidered hankie, laugh-lined shoe, or patterned shift dress I think has a story. My wallet is always flexible but my closet is not. So I look for unique pieces. In searching for vintage dresses or unique patterns, I’ve recently taken to trolling eBay*. I’ve found some reliable vintage stores, but my few experiences have reinforced what I’ve always known to be true: there’s a very fine line between vintage and costume. With the right styling and photography, any vintage item can be made to look like a find. I recently purchased a vintage belted cream lace dress that I was very excited about. It had a square neck and balloon sleeves and it looked special in the photograph. I ordered the dress and when it arrived, I noticed the frayed hem was not as edgy as it had appeared in the photo, and the collar and sleeves made me look like a Renaissance fair worker. I knew even before I tried it on that it was a nice dress, but it would make a beautiful cushion cover. Had I found it in person and physically handled it before purchasing, I would have paid less, with that cushion – not my cushy backside – in mind. So now, I remind myself to make careful decisions when shopping vintage online, especially when it © UCLES 2009

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7 comes to budget. The thrill of the vintage-store find is a rush but it can be tempered with a few step-away-and-step-back moves and a slow front-and-back reality check in front of a mirror. The thrill of the online auction however is more difficult to reign in. Take it from me that virtual-shopping can cloud your judgment and you’ll suddenly find yourself needing – and willing to pay anything for – that vintage Chanel skirt that you can’t even be sure will fit. I’m not afraid of eBay though, just aware. When used appropriately, it’s a great resource for vintage fabrics, scarves, beads, shoes, jewelry, and other accessories. I prefer to stumble – not click – upon my special blouses, dresses, and tees. I want to spot them nestled between the polyester disco dress and the satin nightie. I want to feel my pulse pick up as I cross to the rack, wondering if that pattern is as I imagine, if the fit is as I dream. I want to hear them separate from the rack, shaking loose their creases and tales. I want to take them home and introduce them to my other storied finds. Then I want to add a new chapter.

*eBay: an online auction site

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2 Answer two questions.

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The following passage describes the writer’s experience on an island off the coast of Australia. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) On his return home, Craig (the writer’s friend) writes an article for a travel magazine. He offers a much more positive view than his friend of some aspects of his visit to the island. Write the opening to Craig’s article (between 120-150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

It is eight-thirty at night and we have finally arrived slap bang in the middle of a wild south-easterly squall, five hours north of Brisbane, Queensland, on the northern edge of Fraser Island. The maps call it Waddy Point, but I think badlands is more fitting. The ocean is a wasteland. The hundred miles of beach we have just banged our way up is a lunar landscape, and the coarse dune forest around us is a deafening wall of white-static noise. The ferocious downpour does not let up as we struggle to shape the tarpaulin into a crude umbrella over the banksias*. We string the hammocks between the beach buggy’s roll bar and the trees using twenty feet of rope tied with truck driver hitches, and yanked until the beds are as tight as guitar strings. By the time we have finished, we are drenched, as ravenous as bush pigs, and hover like solemn, dishevelled ghosts aimless as to what to do next. The buggy looks as though it has been looted by madmen. Exhausted, we squelch into our slings as the rain clatters on the tarpaulin like a million shot nails, and occasionally flushes soaking waterfalls around our heads. I fell into a doze, amazed that I actually felt sleepy, and wondered what would become of us tomorrow, in this place at the edge of the world. The winds that hung from our hammocks slammed through the ancient forest like a horde of spoilt children. The tarpaulin flapped as frantic as a beast trying to fly – but I was too tired to care, and slowly the rampage around me found a rhythm, and I drifted into gentle and rocking hands. I woke on the coldness of pre-dawn to an odd greyness that had been cast down, as if from another world. The ocean shivered like no-man’s land, cruel and unforgiving, and the magnitude of this island left me feeling somewhat frail and destitute. I glanced around the campsite, as if in a dreamland, and wondered what the hell I had let myself in for. The scrub dune the camp is burrowed into is a bunker of perfect lawn beneath a brittle skylight of banksias. The worn tarpaulin wobbled with lakes. My mate Craig stirred and smiled up from his cocoon, and I set to task for a heart-starter of coffee using every trick in the book to light a wet fire. I finally resorted to melting my eyebrows with a bucketful of petrol and a tossed match. Shirtless, and in our damp and smelly jeans (and me reeking of scorched hair), we wandered like street kids onto the rim of the dunes. We squatted in the wet sand and drank from our hot metal mugs, and smoked, and watched the world become. The fumes from our fire were a paler blue-black trail in the morning’s watercolors. It was like sitting on the edge of a prehistoric rawness. There was to be no going back today. The storms of the previous night had reduced the southern beach into a swamp. At that time of day and staring into the surf it was easy to imagine the sight of a huge grey dorsal fin cruising through the shoreline gutter. This was big shark country and it would not be the first time that I had seen a fin glide effortlessly in the ocean rip, faster than any racehorse. Then, under a blanket of foam, it would be gone. I finished my smoke and contemplated the significance of the word foodchain in a place like this. © UCLES 2010

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3 “Tiger sharks cruise here,” Craig whispers. “Tiger shark?” I reply flatly. Craig giggles. 45 “Wild, isn’t it?” he says. “Frightening,” I correct him again. He looks at me, laughs, and then stares back out to sea and says quietly, “You’ll be right, though you could probably fill a football field with the number of four-wheel drives that are buried here.” He sipped more coffee and after a while said, “Let’s go fishing.” 50 I mumbled sourly, wondering what was on the box back home, and about the state of my lawns. I lit another smoke, thinking that I had heard it all before and not wanting to be here. An hour later, while we were scraping a panful of burnt bacon onto our blistered fried eggs and sandy-grit rolls, we watched as the first whales of the day blew geysers of steam within a hundred yards of shore. The day 55 ablaze under a sapphire blue-fire sky, and utterly cloudless. The late October heat climbed into the high twenties. The energy-sapping humidity made me feel like I was staggering around in a sauna, and it was barely eight o’clock in the morning.

*banksias: evergreen bushes

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4 2

The following passage is taken from a novel set at the start of the twentieth century. It describes how a group of immigrants search for work in the USA. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Write the opening (between 120-150 words) of another descriptive piece about a visitor’s experience of arriving in a new city. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

It was in the stockyards* that Jonas’s friend had gotten rich, and so to Chicago the party was bound. They knew that one word, Chicago, and that was all they needed to know, at least, until they reached the city. Then, tumbled out of the cars without ceremony, they were no better off than before; they stood staring down the vista of Dearborn Street, with its big black buildings towering in the distance, unable to realize that they had arrived, and why, when they said “Chicago,” people no longer pointed in some direction, but instead looked perplexed, or laughed, or went on without paying any attention. They were pitiable in their helplessness; above all things they stood in deadly terror of any sort of person in official uniform, and so whenever they saw a policeman they would cross the street and hurry by. For the whole of the first day they wandered about in the midst of deafening confusion, utterly lost; and it was only at night that, cowering in the doorway of a house, they were finally discovered and taken by a policeman to the station. In the morning an interpreter was found, and they were taken and put upon a car, and taught a new word – “stockyards”. Their delight at discovering that they were to get out of this adventure without losing another share of their possessions it would not be possible to describe. They sat and stared out of the window. They were on a street which seemed to run on forever, mile after mile – thirty-four of them, if they had known it – and each side of it one uninterrupted row of wretched little two-story frame buildings. Down every side street they could see, it was the same – never a hill and never a hollow, but always the same endless vista of ugly and dirty little wooden buildings. Here and there would be a bridge crossing a filthy creek, with hard-baked mud shores and dingy sheds and docks along it; here and there would be a railroad crossing, with a tangle of switches, and locomotives puffing, and rattling freight cars filing by; here and there would be a great factory, a dingy building with innumerable windows in it, and immense volumes of smoke pouring from the chimneys, darkening the air above and making filthy the earth beneath. But after each of these interruptions, the desolate procession would begin again – the procession of dreary little buildings. A full hour before the party reached the city they had begun to note the perplexing changes in the atmosphere. It grew darker all the time, and upon the earth the grass seemed to grow less green. Every minute, as the train sped on, the colors of things became dingier; the fields were grown parched and yellow, the landscape hideous and bare. And along with the thickening smoke they began to notice another circ*mstance, a strange, pungent odor. They were not sure that it was unpleasant, this odor; some might have called it sickening, but their taste in odors was not developed, and they were only sure that it was curious. Now, sitting in the trolley car, they realized that they were on their way to the home of it – that they had traveled all the way from Lithuania to it. It was now no longer something far off and faint, that you caught in whiffs; you could literally taste it, as well as smell it – you could take hold of it, almost, and examine it at your leisure. They were divided in their opinions about it. It was an elemental odor, raw and crude; it was rich, almost rancid, sensual, and strong. There were some who drank it in as if it were an intoxicant; there were others who put their handkerchiefs to their faces. The new emigrants were still tasting it, lost in wonder, when suddenly the car came to a halt, and the door was flung open, and a voice shouted – “Stockyards!” © UCLES 2010

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5 They were left standing upon the corner, staring; down a side street there were two rows of brick houses, and between them a vista: half a dozen chimneys, tall as the tallest of buildings, touching the very sky – and leaping from them half a dozen columns of smoke, thick, oily, and black as night. It might have come from the center 50 of the world, this smoke, where the fires of the ages still smolder. It came as if selfimpelled, driving all before it, a perpetual explosion. It was inexhaustible; one stared, waiting to see it stop, but still the great streams rolled out. They spread in vast clouds overhead, writhing, curling; then, uniting in one giant river, they streamed away down 55 the sky, stretching a black pall as far as the eye could reach.

*stockyards: yards where livestock are kept before being sold, slaughtered, or shipped on

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6 3

The following speech was delivered by Thabo Mbeki (later to become President of South Africa) in 1996. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Write the opening (between 120-150 words) of a speech in which a public figure (real or imaginary) from a different country describes her or his sense of pride and identity. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

So, let me begin. I am an African. I owe my being to the hills and the valleys, the mountains and the glades, the rivers, the deserts, the trees, the flowers, the seas and the ever-changing seasons that define the face of our native land. My body has frozen in our frosts and in our latter day snows. It has thawed in the warmth of our sunshine and melted in the heat of the midday sun. The crack and the rumble of the summer thunders, lashed by startling lightening, have been a cause both of trembling and of hope. The fragrances of nature have been as pleasant to us as the sight of the wild blooms to the citizens of the veld.* The dramatic shapes of the Drakensberg, the soil-coloured waters of the Lekoa, iGqili noThukela, and the sands of the Kgalagadi, have all been panels of the set on the natural stage on which we act out the foolish deeds of the theatre of our day. At times, and in fear, I have wondered whether I should concede equal citizenship of our country to the leopard and the lion, the elephant and the springbok, the hyena, the black mamba and the pestilential mosquito. A human presence among all these, a feature on the face of our native land thus defined, I know that none dare challenge me when I say I am an African! I owe my being to the Khoi and the San whose desolate souls haunt the great expanses of the beautiful Cape – they who fell victim to the most merciless genocide our native land has ever seen, they who were the first to lose their lives in the struggle to defend our freedom and independence and they who, as a people, perished in the result. Today, as a country, we keep an audible silence about these ancestors of the generations that live, fearful to admit the horror of a former deed, seeking to obliterate from our memories a cruel occurrence which, in its remembering, should teach us not and never to be inhuman again. I am formed of the migrants who left Europe to find a new home on our native land. Whatever their own actions, they remain still, part of me. In my veins courses the blood of the Malay slaves who came from the East. Their proud dignity informs my bearing, their culture a part of my essence. The stripes they bore on their bodies from the lash of the slave master are a reminder embossed on my consciousness of what should not be done. I am the grandchild of the warrior men and women that Hintsa and Sekhukhune led, the patriots that Cetshwayo and Mphephu took to battle, the soldiers Moshoeshoe and Ngungunyane taught never to dishonour the cause of freedom. My mind and my knowledge of myself is formed by the victories that are the jewels in our African crown, the victories we earned from Isandhlwana to Khartoum, as Ethiopians and as the Ashanti of Ghana, as the Berbers of the desert. I am the grandchild who lays fresh flowers on the Boer graves at St Helena and the Bahamas, who sees in the mind’s eye and suffers the suffering of a simple peasant folk, death, concentration camps, destroyed homesteads, a dream in ruins.

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7 I am the child of Nongqause. I am he who made it possible to trade in the world markets in diamonds, in gold, in the same food for which my stomach yearns. I come of those who were transported from India and China, whose being resided in the fact, solely, that they were able to provide physical labour, who taught me that we could both be at home and be foreign, who taught me that human existence itself demanded that freedom was a necessary condition for that human existence. Being part of all these people, and in the knowledge that none dare contest that assertion, I shall claim that – I am an African!

*veld: open grassland

© UCLES 2010

8693/11/M/J/10

45

50

2 Answer two questions.

1

The following passage describes the writer’s experience of travelling in Colombia, in South America. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The bus company is publishing a brochure to attract more tourists for this route. Write the opening of the brochure (between 120-150 words), presenting the positive features of the company’s vehicles and the attractiveness of the local scenery. Base your answer closely on the content of the original extract. [10]

As we descend into the valley between the Cordillera Oriental and the Cordillera Central, the vegetation starts to change and soon the last vestiges of the cold of Bogotá are obliterated as the bus begins to heat up like an oven. We stop at unmarked points to pick more people up, and the conductor is kept busy as this small bus rapidly loses not only its empty seats but its gangway as well. I chivalrously stand for a woman, but am immediately pulled down by Leo who asks what do I think I am doing? His normally confident face is clouded by incredulity. He insists we keep together, and take turns to sleep so as to minimise the danger of robbery and, what is more, we have paid for our seats. Very well, I think, the man is right, this is not England, and we have many hours to go before we get off this bus. We start to climb the Cordillera Central, where we begin a long and tortuous ride along a thin ribbon of road that clings precariously to the mountainside. I watch in awe as the depth of the drop at the edge of the road is revealed. There would be quite simply no chance at all of survival if we went over. Seemingly, many buses do just that, and are never heard of again. The upper side of the mountain has equally as cheerful a disposition, as landslides, common in the wet season, assist the departure from this life of any bus, such as this one. Clearly, there is absolutely no point in worrying about this, so I get on with enjoying the view. Sadly, passengers throw empty glass bottles out of the window without regard. I wonder if they would be equally as carefree if our bus tyres were to blow-out at speed on the edge of the mountainous precipice. Some time later, the uninterrupted broad vista of Nature takes a kick as an unmistakable sign of the times rears its very sad head. It is a large red hoarding placed in the middle of nowhere advertising the virtues of a particular brand of cigarettes. In an area devoid of habitation, and indeed some way off the road, you have to ask “Why?” On the facing mountainside we can see the road we have already driven down. It is some four to five miles away, as the condor flies, yet to cover this distance, we have spent hours hugging the steep slopes. When we finally reach Medellín, I marvel at its location in what seems to be the bottom of a huge rocky cauldron. We are well above the city and can look down, almost as an aircraft passenger, at the myriad streets and buildings. High above Medellín, a mirror-smooth pale purple and blue ghostly lake of air seems to extend all the way down to the city. It is the curse of smog. The pollution is trapped in this vast cauldron leaving the people of Medellín smothered in their own exhaust fumes. Our exact moment of entry into this sea of smog is clear as the bus descends, but no-one seems to notice. Yet for me it is palpable, and it is very soon afterwards that the acrid smell and taste envelops me. My eyes and throat feel tainted and irritated. It’s horrible. How can anyone be fit and healthy in that? We are in Medellín for only two hours, and stay within the confines of the bus waiting for the bus to Turbo. When it does come, I am horrified at the two bald tyres © UCLES 2010

8693/12/M/J/10

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

3 at its rear. As we set off on the second leg of the journey we soon return to the ribbon mountain roads, and I try not to think about the tyres. We sleep fitfully on the bus and when daylight comes we are in a much flatter environment. Tropical vegetation surrounds us as we begin to stop quite frequently. I 45 wonder at what point the conductor will declare the bus to be full. I now cannot believe the number of people who are stuffed into every bit of available space, and still they clamber on. Now they are hanging off the sides of the bus. The conductor continues to collect the fares from everybody no matter where they have found themselves, and sweat pours from his patient and determined face. What a job. There is no way 50 I will relinquish my seat now. I am constantly crushed from the gangway side by several uncomplaining people. The discomfort they must be feeling appears to be neither here nor there. We travel like this for hours, and feel like it is not just the chickens on the bus who are in cages. Finally, we get to a larger settlement and many people get off. 55

© UCLES 2010

8693/12/M/J/10

[Turn over

4 2

The following passage describes the real and fantasy worlds of an American man, Walter Mitty. He is not as special as he likes to imagine. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Mrs. Mitty writes to Dr. Renshaw to express her concerns about her husband. Write her letter (between 120-150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

“We’re going through!” The Commander’s voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. “We can’t make it, sir. It’s spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me.” “I’m not asking you, Lieutenant Berg,” said the Commander. “Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8500! We’re going through!” The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. “Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!” he shouted. “Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!” repeated Lieutenant Berg. “Full strength in No. 3 turret!” shouted the Commander. “Full strength in No. 3 turret!” The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. “The Old Man’ll get us through,” they said to one another. “The Old Man ain’t afraid of hell!” “Not so fast! You’re driving too fast!” said Mrs. Mitty. “What are you driving so fast for?” “Hmm?” said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. “You were up to fifty-five,” she said. “You know I don’t like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five.” Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. “You’re tensed up again,” said Mrs. Mitty. “It’s one of your days. I wish you’d let Dr. Renshaw look you over.” Walter Mitty stopped the car in front of the building where his wife went to have her hair done. “Remember to get those overshoes1 while I’m having my hair done,” she said. “I don’t need overshoes,” said Mitty. She put her mirror back into her bag. “We’ve been all through that,” she said, getting out of the car, “You’re not a young man any longer.” He raced the engine a little. “Why don’t you wear your gloves? Have you lost your gloves?” Walter Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out the gloves. He put them on, but after she had turned and gone into the building and he had driven on to a red light, he took them off again. “Pick it up, brother!” snapped a cop as the light changed, and Mitty hastily pulled on his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot. ... “It’s the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan,” said the pretty nurse. “Yes?” said Walter Mitty, removing his gloves slowly. “Who has the case?” “Dr. Renshaw and Dr. Benbow, but there are two specialists here, Dr. Remington from New York and Dr. Pritchard-Mitford from London. He flew over.” A door opened down a long, cool corridor and Dr. Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. “Hello, Mitty,” he said. ‘We’re having the devil’s own time with McMillan, the millionaire banker and close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal tract. Tertiary. Wish you’d take a look at him.” “Glad to,” said Mitty. In the operating room there were whispered introductions: “Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty. Dr. Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty.” “I’ve read your book on streptothricosis,” said Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. “A brilliant performance, sir.” “Thank you,” said Walter Mitty. “Didn’t know you were in the States, Mitty,” grumbled Remington. “Coals to Newcastle,2 bringing Mitford and me up here for a tertiary.” “You are very kind,” © UCLES 2010

8693/12/M/J/10

5

10

15

20

25

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35

40

45

5 said Mitty. A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. “The new anesthetizer is giving away!” shouted an intern. “There is no one in the East who knows how to fix it!” “Quiet, man!” said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang 50 to the machine, which was now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials. “Give me a fountain pen!” he snapped. Someone handed him a pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place ... “Back it up! Look out for that Buick!” Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes. “Wrong 55 lane,” said the parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely. “Gee. Yeh,” muttered Mitty. He began cautiously to back out of the lane marked “Exit Only.” “Leave her sit there,” said the attendant. “I’ll put her away.” Mitty got out of the car. “Hey, better leave the key.” “Oh,” said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The attendant vaulted into 60 the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged.

1 2

overshoes: rubber or plastic shoes worn over an ordinary shoe for protection Coals to Newcastle: a phrase meaning ‘something done unnecessarily’

© UCLES 2010

8693/12/M/J/10

[Turn over

6 3

The following speech was delivered by Jomo Kenyatta, a future leader of Kenya. He was speaking to the Kenya African Union (KAU) at a time when it was promoting non-violent calls for independence from Britain. Kenyatta was suspected of being a member of the Mau Mau, a rival organisation calling for more violent forms of protest against British rule. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Basing your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract, write the opening (between 120-150 words) of a speech in which the leader of another organisation (real or imaginary) calls for certain demands to be met. [10]

I want you to know the purpose of KAU. It is the biggest purpose the African has. It involves every African in Kenya and it is their mouthpiece which asks for freedom. KAU is you and you are the KAU. If we unite now – each and every one of us and each tribe to another – we will cause the implementation in this country of that which the European calls democracy. True democracy has no colour distinction. It does not choose between black and white. We are here in this tremendous gathering under the KAU flag to find which road leads us from darkness into democracy. In order to find it we Africans must first achieve the right to elect our own representatives. That is surely the first principle of democracy. We are the only race in Kenya which does not elect its own representatives in the Legislature and we are going to set about to rectify this situation. We feel we are dominated by a handful of others who refuse to be just. God said this is our land. Land in which we are to flourish as a people. We are not worried that other races are here with us in our country, but we insist that we are the leaders here, and what we want we insist we get. We want our cattle to get fat on our land so that our children grow up in prosperity; we do not want that fat removed to feed others. He who has ears should now hear that KAU claims this land as its own gift from God and I wish those who are black, white or brown at this meeting to know this. KAU speaks in daylight. He who calls us the Mau Mau is not truthful. We do not know this thing Mau Mau. We want to prosper as a nation, and as a nation we demand equality, that is equal pay for equal work. Whether it is a chief, headman or labourer he needs in these days increased salary. He needs a salary that compares with a salary of a European who does equal work. We will never get our freedom unless we succeed in this issue. We do not want equal pay for equal work tomorrow – we want it right now. Those who profess to be just must realize that this is the foundation of justice. It has never been known in history that a country prospers without equality. We despise bribery and corruption, those two words that the European repeatedly refers to. Bribery and corruption is prevalent in this country, but I am not surprised. As long as a people are held down, corruption is sure to rise and the only answer to this is a policy of equality. If we work together as one, we must succeed. Our country today is in a bad state for its land is full of fools – and fools in a country delay the independence of its people. KAU seeks to remedy this situation and I tell you now it despises thieving, robbery and murder for these practices ruin our country. I say this because if one man steals, or two men steal, there are people sitting close by, lapping up information, who say the whole tribe is bad because a theft has been committed. Those people are wrecking our chances of advancement. They will prevent us getting freedom.

© UCLES 2010

8693/12/M/J/10

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

7 If I have my own way, let me tell you I would butcher the criminal, and there are more criminals than one in more senses than one ... I want to touch on a number of points, and I ask you for the hundredth time to keep quiet whilst I do this. We want self-government, but this we will never get if we drink beer. It is harming our country and making people fools and encouraging crime. It is also taking all our money. KAU is not a fighting union that uses fists and weapons. If any of you here think that force is good, I do not agree with you: remember the old saying that he who is hit with a rungu1 returns, but he who is bit with justice never comes back. I do not want people to accuse us falsely – that we steal and that we are Mau Mau. I pray to you that we join hands for freedom and freedom means abolishing criminality. Beer harms us and those who drink it do us harm and they may be the so-called Mau Mau. Whatever grievances we have, let us air them here in the open. The criminal does not want freedom and land – he wants to line his own pocket. Let us therefore demand our rights justly.

1 rungu:

© UCLES 2010

a weapon made of wood

8693/12/M/J/10

45

50

55

2 Answer two questions.

1

The following passage describes the writer’s experience of travelling in Colombia, in South America. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The bus company is publishing a brochure to attract more tourists for this route. Write the opening of the brochure (between 120-150 words), presenting the positive features of the company’s vehicles and the attractiveness of the local scenery. Base your answer closely on the content of the original extract. [10]

As we descend into the valley between the Cordillera Oriental and the Cordillera Central, the vegetation starts to change and soon the last vestiges of the cold of Bogotá are obliterated as the bus begins to heat up like an oven. We stop at unmarked points to pick more people up, and the conductor is kept busy as this small bus rapidly loses not only its empty seats but its gangway as well. I chivalrously stand for a woman, but am immediately pulled down by Leo who asks what do I think I am doing? His normally confident face is clouded by incredulity. He insists we keep together, and take turns to sleep so as to minimise the danger of robbery and, what is more, we have paid for our seats. Very well, I think, the man is right, this is not England, and we have many hours to go before we get off this bus. We start to climb the Cordillera Central, where we begin a long and tortuous ride along a thin ribbon of road that clings precariously to the mountainside. I watch in awe as the depth of the drop at the edge of the road is revealed. There would be quite simply no chance at all of survival if we went over. Seemingly, many buses do just that, and are never heard of again. The upper side of the mountain has equally as cheerful a disposition, as landslides, common in the wet season, assist the departure from this life of any bus, such as this one. Clearly, there is absolutely no point in worrying about this, so I get on with enjoying the view. Sadly, passengers throw empty glass bottles out of the window without regard. I wonder if they would be equally as carefree if our bus tyres were to blow-out at speed on the edge of the mountainous precipice. Some time later, the uninterrupted broad vista of Nature takes a kick as an unmistakable sign of the times rears its very sad head. It is a large red hoarding placed in the middle of nowhere advertising the virtues of a particular brand of cigarettes. In an area devoid of habitation, and indeed some way off the road, you have to ask “Why?” On the facing mountainside we can see the road we have already driven down. It is some four to five miles away, as the condor flies, yet to cover this distance, we have spent hours hugging the steep slopes. When we finally reach Medellín, I marvel at its location in what seems to be the bottom of a huge rocky cauldron. We are well above the city and can look down, almost as an aircraft passenger, at the myriad streets and buildings. High above Medellín, a mirror-smooth pale purple and blue ghostly lake of air seems to extend all the way down to the city. It is the curse of smog. The pollution is trapped in this vast cauldron leaving the people of Medellín smothered in their own exhaust fumes. Our exact moment of entry into this sea of smog is clear as the bus descends, but no-one seems to notice. Yet for me it is palpable, and it is very soon afterwards that the acrid smell and taste envelops me. My eyes and throat feel tainted and irritated. It’s horrible. How can anyone be fit and healthy in that? We are in Medellín for only two hours, and stay within the confines of the bus waiting for the bus to Turbo. When it does come, I am horrified at the two bald tyres © UCLES 2010

8693/13/M/J/10

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

3 at its rear. As we set off on the second leg of the journey we soon return to the ribbon mountain roads, and I try not to think about the tyres. We sleep fitfully on the bus and when daylight comes we are in a much flatter environment. Tropical vegetation surrounds us as we begin to stop quite frequently. I 45 wonder at what point the conductor will declare the bus to be full. I now cannot believe the number of people who are stuffed into every bit of available space, and still they clamber on. Now they are hanging off the sides of the bus. The conductor continues to collect the fares from everybody no matter where they have found themselves, and sweat pours from his patient and determined face. What a job. There is no way 50 I will relinquish my seat now. I am constantly crushed from the gangway side by several uncomplaining people. The discomfort they must be feeling appears to be neither here nor there. We travel like this for hours, and feel like it is not just the chickens on the bus who are in cages. Finally, we get to a larger settlement and many people get off. 55

© UCLES 2010

8693/13/M/J/10

[Turn over

4 2

The following passage describes the real and fantasy worlds of an American man, Walter Mitty. He is not as special as he likes to imagine. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Mrs. Mitty writes to Dr. Renshaw to express her concerns about her husband. Write her letter (between 120-150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

“We’re going through!” The Commander’s voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. “We can’t make it, sir. It’s spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me.” “I’m not asking you, Lieutenant Berg,” said the Commander. “Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8500! We’re going through!” The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. “Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!” he shouted. “Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!” repeated Lieutenant Berg. “Full strength in No. 3 turret!” shouted the Commander. “Full strength in No. 3 turret!” The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. “The Old Man’ll get us through,” they said to one another. “The Old Man ain’t afraid of hell!” “Not so fast! You’re driving too fast!” said Mrs. Mitty. “What are you driving so fast for?” “Hmm?” said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. “You were up to fifty-five,” she said. “You know I don’t like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five.” Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. “You’re tensed up again,” said Mrs. Mitty. “It’s one of your days. I wish you’d let Dr. Renshaw look you over.” Walter Mitty stopped the car in front of the building where his wife went to have her hair done. “Remember to get those overshoes1 while I’m having my hair done,” she said. “I don’t need overshoes,” said Mitty. She put her mirror back into her bag. “We’ve been all through that,” she said, getting out of the car, “You’re not a young man any longer.” He raced the engine a little. “Why don’t you wear your gloves? Have you lost your gloves?” Walter Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out the gloves. He put them on, but after she had turned and gone into the building and he had driven on to a red light, he took them off again. “Pick it up, brother!” snapped a cop as the light changed, and Mitty hastily pulled on his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot. ... “It’s the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan,” said the pretty nurse. “Yes?” said Walter Mitty, removing his gloves slowly. “Who has the case?” “Dr. Renshaw and Dr. Benbow, but there are two specialists here, Dr. Remington from New York and Dr. Pritchard-Mitford from London. He flew over.” A door opened down a long, cool corridor and Dr. Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. “Hello, Mitty,” he said. ‘We’re having the devil’s own time with McMillan, the millionaire banker and close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal tract. Tertiary. Wish you’d take a look at him.” “Glad to,” said Mitty. In the operating room there were whispered introductions: “Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty. Dr. Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty.” “I’ve read your book on streptothricosis,” said Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. “A brilliant performance, sir.” “Thank you,” said Walter Mitty. “Didn’t know you were in the States, Mitty,” grumbled Remington. “Coals to Newcastle,2 bringing Mitford and me up here for a tertiary.” “You are very kind,” © UCLES 2010

8693/13/M/J/10

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

45

5 said Mitty. A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. “The new anesthetizer is giving away!” shouted an intern. “There is no one in the East who knows how to fix it!” “Quiet, man!” said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang 50 to the machine, which was now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials. “Give me a fountain pen!” he snapped. Someone handed him a pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place ... “Back it up! Look out for that Buick!” Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes. “Wrong 55 lane,” said the parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely. “Gee. Yeh,” muttered Mitty. He began cautiously to back out of the lane marked “Exit Only.” “Leave her sit there,” said the attendant. “I’ll put her away.” Mitty got out of the car. “Hey, better leave the key.” “Oh,” said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The attendant vaulted into 60 the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged.

1 2

overshoes: rubber or plastic shoes worn over an ordinary shoe for protection Coals to Newcastle: a phrase meaning ‘something done unnecessarily’

© UCLES 2010

8693/13/M/J/10

[Turn over

6 3

The following speech was delivered by Jomo Kenyatta, a future leader of Kenya. He was speaking to the Kenya African Union (KAU) at a time when it was promoting non-violent calls for independence from Britain. Kenyatta was suspected of being a member of the Mau Mau, a rival organisation calling for more violent forms of protest against British rule. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Basing your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract, write the opening (between 120-150 words) of a speech in which the leader of another organisation (real or imaginary) calls for certain demands to be met. [10]

I want you to know the purpose of KAU. It is the biggest purpose the African has. It involves every African in Kenya and it is their mouthpiece which asks for freedom. KAU is you and you are the KAU. If we unite now – each and every one of us and each tribe to another – we will cause the implementation in this country of that which the European calls democracy. True democracy has no colour distinction. It does not choose between black and white. We are here in this tremendous gathering under the KAU flag to find which road leads us from darkness into democracy. In order to find it we Africans must first achieve the right to elect our own representatives. That is surely the first principle of democracy. We are the only race in Kenya which does not elect its own representatives in the Legislature and we are going to set about to rectify this situation. We feel we are dominated by a handful of others who refuse to be just. God said this is our land. Land in which we are to flourish as a people. We are not worried that other races are here with us in our country, but we insist that we are the leaders here, and what we want we insist we get. We want our cattle to get fat on our land so that our children grow up in prosperity; we do not want that fat removed to feed others. He who has ears should now hear that KAU claims this land as its own gift from God and I wish those who are black, white or brown at this meeting to know this. KAU speaks in daylight. He who calls us the Mau Mau is not truthful. We do not know this thing Mau Mau. We want to prosper as a nation, and as a nation we demand equality, that is equal pay for equal work. Whether it is a chief, headman or labourer he needs in these days increased salary. He needs a salary that compares with a salary of a European who does equal work. We will never get our freedom unless we succeed in this issue. We do not want equal pay for equal work tomorrow – we want it right now. Those who profess to be just must realize that this is the foundation of justice. It has never been known in history that a country prospers without equality. We despise bribery and corruption, those two words that the European repeatedly refers to. Bribery and corruption is prevalent in this country, but I am not surprised. As long as a people are held down, corruption is sure to rise and the only answer to this is a policy of equality. If we work together as one, we must succeed. Our country today is in a bad state for its land is full of fools – and fools in a country delay the independence of its people. KAU seeks to remedy this situation and I tell you now it despises thieving, robbery and murder for these practices ruin our country. I say this because if one man steals, or two men steal, there are people sitting close by, lapping up information, who say the whole tribe is bad because a theft has been committed. Those people are wrecking our chances of advancement. They will prevent us getting freedom.

© UCLES 2010

8693/13/M/J/10

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

7 If I have my own way, let me tell you I would butcher the criminal, and there are more criminals than one in more senses than one ... I want to touch on a number of points, and I ask you for the hundredth time to keep quiet whilst I do this. We want self-government, but this we will never get if we drink beer. It is harming our country and making people fools and encouraging crime. It is also taking all our money. KAU is not a fighting union that uses fists and weapons. If any of you here think that force is good, I do not agree with you: remember the old saying that he who is hit with a rungu1 returns, but he who is bit with justice never comes back. I do not want people to accuse us falsely – that we steal and that we are Mau Mau. I pray to you that we join hands for freedom and freedom means abolishing criminality. Beer harms us and those who drink it do us harm and they may be the so-called Mau Mau. Whatever grievances we have, let us air them here in the open. The criminal does not want freedom and land – he wants to line his own pocket. Let us therefore demand our rights justly.

1 rungu:

© UCLES 2010

a weapon made of wood

8693/13/M/J/10

45

50

55

2 Answer two questions

1

The following passage is part of a speech delivered in China in 1995 by Hillary Clinton, wife of the American president at the time. In it she considers the issue of women’s rights. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The same speaker delivers another speech to an international audience. In it she considers the rights of children. Write the opening of her speech (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

I would like to thank the Secretary General of the United Nations for inviting me to be part of the United Nations Fourth World Conference on Women. This is truly a celebration – a celebration of the contributions women make in every aspect of life: in the home, on the job, in their communities, as mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, learners, workers, citizens and leaders. It is also a coming together, much the way women come together every day in every country. We come together in fields and in factories. In village markets and supermarkets. In living rooms and board rooms. Whether it is while playing with our children in the park, or washing clothes in a river, or taking a break at the office water cooler, we come together and talk about our aspirations and concerns. And time and again, our talk turns to our children and our families. However different we may be, there is far more that unites us than divides us. We share a common future. And we are here to find common ground so that we may help bring new dignity and respect to women and girls all over the world – and in so doing, bring new strength and stability to families as well. By gathering in Beijing, we are focusing world attention on issues that matter most in the lives of women and their families: access to education, health care, jobs, and credit, the chance to enjoy basic legal and human rights and participate fully in the political life of their countries. There are some who question the reason for this conference. Let them listen to the voices of women in their homes, neighborhoods, and workplaces. There are some who wonder whether the lives of women and girls matter to economic and political progress around the globe. Let them look at the women gathered here and at Huairou – the homemakers, nurses, teachers, lawyers, policymakers, and women who run their own businesses. It is conferences like this that compel governments and peoples everywhere to listen, look and face the world’s most pressing problems. Wasn’t it after the women’s conference in Nairobi ten years ago that the world focused for the first time on the crisis of domestic violence? Earlier today, I participated in a World Health Organization forum, where government officials, NGOs, and individual citizens are working on ways to address the health problems of women and girls. Tomorrow, I will attend a gathering of the United Nations Development Fund for Women. There, the discussion will focus on local – and highly successful – programs that give hard-working women access to credit so they can improve their own lives and the lives of their families. What we are learning around the world is that, if women are healthy and educated, their families will flourish. If women are free from violence, their families will flourish. If women have a chance to work and earn as full and equal partners in society, their families will flourish. And when families flourish, communities and nations will flourish. © UCLES 2011

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3 That is why every woman, every man, every child, every family, and every nation on our planet has a stake in the discussion that takes place here. Over the past twenty-five years, I have worked persistently on issues relating to women, children and families. Over the past two-and-a-half years, I have had the opportunity to learn more about the challenges facing women in my own country and around the world. I have met new mothers in Indonesia, who come together regularly in their villages to discuss nutrition, family planning, and baby care. I have met working parents in Denmark who talk about the comfort they feel in knowing that their children can be cared for in creative, safe, and nurturing afterschool centers. I have met women in South Africa who helped lead the struggle to end apartheid and are now helping build a new democracy. I have met with the leading women of the Western Hemisphere who are working every day to promote literacy and better health care for the children of their countries. I have met women in India and Bangladesh who are taking out small loans to buy milk cows, rickshaws, thread and other materials to create a livelihood for themselves and their families. I have met doctors and nurses in Belarus and Ukraine who are trying to keep children alive in the aftermath of Chernobyl. The great challenge of this conference is to give voice to women everywhere whose experiences go unnoticed, whose words go unheard. Women comprise more than half the world’s population. Women are seventy percent of the world’s poor, and two-thirds of those who are not taught to read and write. Women are the primary caretakers for most of the world’s children and elderly. Yet much of the work we do is not valued – not by economists, not by historians, not by popular culture, not by government leaders.

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4 2

The following passage describes the writer moving from Istanbul (in Turkey) to Geneva (in Switzerland). (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later, the writer’s brother publishes an autobiography. In one chapter, he recalls the behaviour, thoughts and feelings of both brothers during their stay in Geneva, Switzerland. Write the opening of the chapter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

In 1959, when I was seven years old, my father went missing under mysterious circ*mstances. This was how my father joined the long line of penniless and miserable Turkish intellectuals who had been walking the streets of Paris for a century already. My father became one of Europe’s first Turkish guest workers. My mother soon joined him, leaving my older brother and me in our grandmother’s plush and crowded home. We were to follow our mother to Geneva after school had closed for the summer, which meant that we needed to get passports. I remember having to pose for a very long time while the old photographer fiddled, under a black cloth, with a three-legged contraption with bellows. To cast light onto the chemical plate, he had to open the lens for a split second, which he did with an elegant flick of his hand, but, before he did this, he would look at us and say, “Yeeeees,” and it was because I found this photographer truly ridiculous that my first passport picture shows me biting my cheeks. The passport notes that my hair, which had probably been combed for the first time that year in preparation for the photograph, was chestnut brown. I must have flipped through the passport too quickly back then to notice that someone had got my eye color wrong; it was only when I opened it thirty years later that I picked up on the mistake. What this taught me was that, contrary to what I’d believed, a passport is not a document that tells us who we are but a document that shows what other people think of us. As we flew into Geneva, our new passports in the pockets of our new jackets, my brother and I were overcome with terror. The plane banked as it came in for a landing, and to us this country called Switzerland seemed to be a place where everything, even the clouds, was on a steep incline that stretched to infinity. The streets in Switzerland were cleaner and emptier than those at home. There was more variety in the shop windows, and there were more cars. The beggars didn’t beg empty-handed, as in Istanbul; instead, they’d stand under your window playing the accordion. Before we threw money to our local beggar, my mother would wrap it in paper. Our apartment had been rented furnished. This was how I came to associate living in another country with sitting at tables where others had sat before, using glasses and plates that other people had drunk from and dined on, and sleeping in beds that had grown old after years of cradling other sleeping people. Another country was a country that belonged to other people. We had to accept the fact that the things we were using would never belong to us, and that this country, this other land, would never belong to us, either. My mother, who had studied at a French school in Istanbul, sat us down at the empty dining-room table every morning that summer and tried to teach us French. Only when we were enrolled in a state primary school did we discover that we had learned nothing. My parents hoped that we would learn French simply by listening to the teacher day in and day out, but we didn’t. When recess began, my brother and I would wander among the crowds of playing children until we found each other and could hold hands. This foreign land was an endless garden full of happy children. My brother and I watched that garden with longing, from a distance.

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5 Although my brother couldn’t speak French, he was top in his class at counting backward by threes. The only thing I was good at in this school where I couldn’t 45 understand the language was silence. Just as you might struggle to wake up from a dream in which no one speaks, I fought not to go to school. As it did later, in other cities and other schools, my tendency to turn inward protected me from life’s difficulties, but it also deprived me of life’s riches. One day, my parents took my brother out of school, too. Putting our passports in our hands, they sent us away 50 from Geneva, back to our grandmother in Istanbul. I never used that passport again: it was a reminder of my first failed European adventure, and such was the vehemence of my decision to turn inward that it would be another twenty-four years before I left Turkey again. When I was young, I always gazed with admiration and envy at those who acquired passports and travelled to 55 Europe and beyond, but, despite the opportunities that were presented to me, I remained fearfully certain that it was my lot to sit in a corner in Istanbul …

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6 3

In the following passage the writer describes two different experiences of searching for tigers in India. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) On another expedition, the writer goes with Prasad and Neem to search for a different kind of animal and writes an article about his experience. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

We had just regained the path on the far side of the stream when Prasad stopped. So far our tiger hunt had been unsuccessful. A group of Malabar pied hornbills clattered through a tall fruit-bearing tree above us. Further away there was another sound, an urgent and repetitive bark. Prasad used his stick to draw two circles in the dirt around some marks. Neem translated his whispers. “Leopard tracks – they are about fifteen minutes ahead of us. A mother and cub. The barking is the langur monkeys giving warnings.” We went forward. The jungle was tinderbox dry. It was almost impossible to move without snapping a twig under a pile of crackling leaves and there were four of us: myself, two park guides and Neem, naturalist and translator. Through the trees we caught occasional glimpses of the main ridge that makes up Satpura national park, a 1,400-square-kilometre patch of jungle in the central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh. That morning, Neem had told me, I was the only tourist in all those acres of wild forest. Where the path cleared a little, Prasad pointed out more tracks: “Indian wild dog – very rare animal.” And nearby something else: a pile of whitened droppings. “Tiger.” I felt the adrenaline kick through me. In my imagination the thickets around us parted and a massive orange and black killer came hurtling out. An adult royal Bengal tiger can weigh up to 35 stone. It sprints at 50 miles per hour. How fast could I climb a tree? My assignment was to investigate whether tourism can benefit tiger conservation, but now I wondered if I was about to increase the tigers’ food supply. It was nonsense, of course. Any tiger that sensed our presence would be quietly moving in the opposite direction. One cannot, however, always be rational about such things. Neem grinned, as if he guessed my thoughts. “It’s old,” he said. “A couple of weeks.” Further down the track, Prasad and his partner, Ashish, held a whispered conversation. The warning cries had stopped and so had the leopard tracks. They were trying to second-guess the cats’ direction. We moved forward again, cutting through the forest past a pile of white bones. “An old kill – a gaur, or Indian bison.” Then suddenly Prasad crouched down, motioning us to do likewise. There was a whispered conversation and a single glistening drop of liquid on a dry grass blade was pointed out to me. “Indian wild dog. It must be very close.” Prasad slowly raised his head over the line of the undergrowth and I copied. Almost immediately I saw them: a pack of chestnut and white coloured hounds, more like a long-legged fox than a dog, loping directly towards us. In seconds they would be on top of us. I ducked down and got the camera ready. The dogs, however, had sensed our presence and altered course. All I got was a brief glimpse through the trees to our left, a single adult that had paused briefly to watch us. Then, in a flick of chestnut tails, they were gone. We stood up and relaxed. “Unbelievable,” said Neem. “There were eighteen of them – I’ve never seen so many. Very rare sighting.” I was shocked to find that forty minutes had passed since encountering the leopard tracks. The concentration had been so intense. And what had we seen? No tigers. No more than a few seconds of a wild dog, but I was buzzing with the adrenaline. © UCLES 2011

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7 “Breakfast?” Neem suggested. We moved on to some smooth flat-topped boulders, brushed aside a few porcupine poos and sat down. Neem took a lunch box out. “Cucumber sandwich anyone?” Now cut away to a week earlier. This time I am in Kanha National Tiger Reserve, 50 again in Madhya Pradesh. Kanha provides visitors with the classic Indian wildlife experience, the one most tour companies offer and the one that usually guarantees a tiger sighting. At 6 a.m. we are in a queue of about fifty jeeps at the park gates, awaiting entry to the “core” zone of the reserve. Most of the vehicles are filled with Indian families, 55 kids excited and chattering, ladies in bright saris. We have passed through the broad “buffer zone” where villagers are allowed to live inside a protected forest. It’s also the zone where privately run tourist lodges are springing up in profusion to cater for this explosion in domestic tourism. We pick up our local guide and the gate opens. There is no tracking, however. No one is allowed down from the open-topped 60 jeep and no deviation from the dirt road is permitted. The net result is that the local guide contributes very little, his ground-level knowledge locked away in the front seat of the jeep.

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2 Answer two questions

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The following passage is part of a speech given by Barack Obama, future president of the United States, to his political party in 2004. In it he considers the rights children should have. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same speaker delivers another speech to his political party. In it he considers the rights of women. Write the opening of the speech (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Tonight is a particular honor for me because, let’s face it, my presence on this stage is pretty unlikely. My father was a foreign student, born and raised in a small village in Kenya. He grew up herding goats, went to school in a tin-roof shack. His father – my grandfather – was a cook, a domestic servant to the British. But my grandfather had larger dreams for his son. Through hard work and perseverance my father got a scholarship to study in a magical place, America, that shone as a beacon of freedom and opportunity to so many who had come before. While studying here, my father met my mother. She was born in a town on the other side of the world, in Kansas. Her father worked on oil rigs and farms through most of the Depression. The day after Pearl Harbor my grandfather signed up for duty; joined Patton’s army, marched across Europe. Back home, my grandmother raised a baby and went to work on a bomber assembly line. After the war, they studied on the G.I. Bill, bought a house through F.H.A., and later moved west all the way to Hawaii in search of opportunity. And they, too, had big dreams for their daughter. A common dream, born of two continents. My parents shared not only an improbable love, they shared an abiding faith in the possibilities of this nation. They would give me an African name, Barack, or ‘blessed’, believing that in a tolerant America your name is no barrier to success. They imagined – They imagined me going to the best schools in the land, even though they weren’t rich, because in a generous America you don’t have to be rich to achieve your potential. They’re both passed away now. And yet, I know that on this night they look down on me with great pride. They stand here – and I stand here today, grateful for the diversity of my heritage, aware that my parents’ dreams live on in my two precious daughters. I stand here knowing that my story is part of the larger American story, that I owe a debt to all of those who came before me, and that, in no other country on earth, is my story even possible … That is the true genius of America, a faith – a faith in simple dreams, an insistence on small miracles; that we can tuck in our children at night and know that they are fed and clothed and safe from harm; that we can say what we think, write what we think, without hearing a sudden knock on the door; that we can have an idea and start our own business without paying a bribe; that we can participate in the political process without fear of retribution; and that our votes will be counted – at least most of the time. And fellow Americans, Democrats, Republicans, Independents, I say to you tonight: We have more work to do – more work to do for the workers I met in Galesburg, Illinois, who are losing their union jobs at the Maytag plant that’s moving to Mexico, and now are having to compete with their own children for jobs that pay seven bucks an hour; more to do for the father that I met who was losing his job and choking back the tears, wondering how he would pay 4500 dollars a month for the drugs his son needs without the health benefits that he counted on; more to do © UCLES 2011

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3 for the young woman in East St. Louis, and thousands more like her, who has the grades, has the drive, has the will, but doesn’t have the money to go to college. 45 Now, don’t get me wrong. The people I meet – in small towns and big cities, in diners and office parks – they don’t expect government to solve all their problems. They know they have to work hard to get ahead, and they want to. Go into the collar counties around Chicago, and people will tell you they don’t want their tax money wasted, by a welfare agency or by the Pentagon. Go in – Go into any inner city 50 neighborhood, and folks will tell you that government alone can’t teach our kids to learn; they know that parents have to teach, that children can’t achieve unless we raise their expectations and turn off the television sets and eradicate the slander that says a black youth with a book is acting white. They know those things. People don’t expect – people don’t expect government to solve all their problems. 55 But they sense, deep in their bones, that with just a slight change in priorities, we can make sure that every child in America has a decent shot at life, and that the doors of opportunity remain open to all. They know we can do better. And they want that choice.

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4 2

The following passage describes the writer’s relationship with his father. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later, the writer finds part of his father’s autobiography in the suitcase. In one chapter the father describes his thoughts and feelings about his relationship with his son. Write the opening of the chapter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Two years before my father died, he gave me a small suitcase filled with his manuscripts and notebooks. Assuming his usual jocular, mocking air, he told me that he wanted me to read them after he was gone, by which he meant after his death. “Just take a look,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “See if there’s anything in there that you can use. Maybe after I’m gone you can make a selection and publish it.” We were in my study, surrounded by books. My father was searching for a place to set down the suitcase, wandering around like a man who wished to rid himself of a painful burden. In the end, he deposited it quietly, unobtrusively, in a corner. It was a shaming moment that neither of us ever quite forgot, but once it had passed and we had gone back to our usual roles, taking life lightly, we relaxed. We talked as we always did – about trivial, everyday things, and our country’s never-ending political troubles, and my father’s mostly failed business ventures – without feeling too much sorrow. For several days after that, I walked back and forth past the suitcase without ever actually touching it. I was already familiar with this small black leather case, with a lock and rounded corners. When I was a child, my father had taken it with him on short trips and had sometimes used it to carry documents to work. Whenever he came home from a trip, I’d rush to open this little suitcase and rummage through his things, savoring the scent of cologne and foreign countries. The suitcase was a friend, a powerful reminder of my past, but now I couldn’t even touch it. Why? No doubt because of the mysterious weight of its contents … When I did finally touch my father’s suitcase, I still could not bring myself to open it. But I knew what was inside some of the notebooks it held. I had seen my father writing in them. My father had a large library. In his youth, in the late nineteenforties, he had wanted to be a poet but he had not wanted to live the sort of life that came with writing poetry in a poor country where there were few readers. My father’s father – my grandfather – was a wealthy businessman, and my father had led a comfortable life as a child and a young man; he had no wish to endure hardship for the sake of literature, for writing. He loved life with all its beauties: this I understood. The first thing that kept me away from my father’s suitcase was, of course, a fear that I might not like what I read. Because my father understood this, too, he had taken the precaution of acting as if he did not take the contents of the case seriously. By this time, I had been working as a writer for twenty-five years, and his failure to take literature seriously pained me. But that was not what worried me most: my real fear – the crucial thing that I did not wish to discover – was that my father might be a good writer. If true and great literature emerged from my father’s suitcase, I would have to acknowledge that inside my father there existed a man who was entirely different from the one I knew. This was a frightening possibility. Even at my advanced age, I wanted my father to be my father and my father only – not a writer … So this was what was driving me when I first opened my father’s suitcase: Did my father have a secret, an unhappiness in his life that I knew nothing about, something that he could endure only by pouring it into his writing? As soon as I opened the suitcase, I recalled its scent of travel and recognized several notebooks that my father had shown me years earlier, though without dwelling on them for long. Most of the notebooks I now took in my hands he had filled when he was in Paris as a young man. Although, like so many writers I admired – writers whose biographies © UCLES 2011

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5 I had read – I wished to know what my father had written, and what he had thought, when he was the age I was now, it did not take me long to realize that I would find nothing like that here. What disturbed me most was when, now and again, in my father’s notebooks, I came upon a writerly voice. This was not my father’s voice, I 50 told myself; it wasn’t authentic, or, at least, it didn’t belong to the man I’d known as my father. Beneath my fear that my father might not have been my father when he wrote was a more profound fear: the fear that, deep inside, I was not authentic.

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The following passage describes an English writer’s visit to a place of religious study in Tarim, Yemen. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later, the writer visits another group of women studying in another country. She writes a magazine article describing the place and some of the people she met. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

On my flight from Dubai to the Yemeni capital, Sanaa, every other woman is wearing a black face veil. After the glitz and hustle of Dubai, Sanaa’s mud-brick old city feels dark, quiet and ancient. It is the summer monsoon and in the late afternoon the sunken street past the old city is suddenly waist-deep with rushing grey water, submerging a taxi. Four men with curved daggers thrust into their wide, gold-embroidered belts hitch up their white robes and wade in to heave it out. A crowd gathers, but the few women hurrying past, draped in black, do not stop. In Yemen the streets overwhelmingly belong to men. Tarim is remoter still, three hundred miles south-east across the desert in a vast canyon, the Wadi Hadhramaut. Descending towards the canyon’s little airport, the plane plunges into a landscape of tiny emerald-green fields set with date palms and crumbling mud-brick towers. Where the irrigation stops, the valley sides are dotted with the whitewashed tombs of local saints. The Hadhramaut tribe converted to Islam around the time of the Prophet’s death and it has been famous for its scholars and holy men ever since. The “place of miracles” turns out to be a nondescript grid of square concrete buildings under the high canyon walls. One of them conceals a tall, galleried white courtyard, where a dark-eyed Briton in black robes, Asma, is waiting for me. “Salaam, welcome to Dar al-Zahra,” she says, taking my hands. Little girls in coloured gowns bring metal cups of iced water and wave palm leaf fans while the older students, all in black, press round to wish me peace. They have been sent from Indonesia, East Africa and the Arab world to complete their years of Islamic study. But I have come to meet the “Dowra girls”, western Muslims on a forty day programme introducing them to a beginner’s version of life in the centre. In the windowless hallway of their separate home, a dozen twentysomething women in bright ankle-length house-gowns and headscarves are sitting on thin mattresses with their textbooks. They look tired and hot. “This is Rachel, our guest,” says Asma. The warmth of the girls’ welcome surprises me. They jump up, smiling, to wish me peace, hurry to bring tea and carry my bags – earnestly striving to live up to the religious virtue of hospitality. Aziza, a lively girl with heavy kohl rings around her dark eyes, introduces me. Many of my new housemates are, like Aziza, from Urdu-speaking BritishPakistani families, but there are also a handful of converts, including a South African lawyer called Samira, a Canadian student, Sara, and a blue-eyed English girl who has taken the Arabic name Nur, “Light”. When they head off, chattering, to the afternoon prayer, I explore the Dowra house. It is less like an austere religious retreat than a boarding school: it smells of shampoo, perfume and sweaty nylon, and the shared bathroom is a cheerful girly clutter of pink razors and make-up. But on the door someone has stuck a note in felt-tip pen: the duas – or special prayers – to be repeated before and after using the shower or toilet … We have been sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the floor for two hours and my knees and back are burning. Even the other girls are wincing. “Is it too strict?” I ask. © UCLES 2011

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7 “No, no,” says Aziza. “And the more you suffer, the more it proves your himma.” Himma is the virtue of spiritual aspiration, and the girls are keen to encourage each other in its feats. “When we’re really tired, I say, ‘Come on, girls’,” explains Aziza. “ ‘Remember that the darkness on the way to the mosque in the morning will be repaid with light on Judgment Day, when everyone else is in the dark.’ ” As we trail slowly back along the dust road, the girls describe the rules for students. They are based on the strict codes of behaviour that apply to Yemeni women, who are among the least educated and most cloistered in the world. Away from the concrete boxes of its outskirts, Tarim is an exotically beautiful town of merchants’ palaces and mud-brick mosques. But, unlike the male students, the girls are not allowed to visit the fruit and vegetable market, drink Fanta in the couple of grill cafes or visit the tumbledown outdoor teahouse in the shade of the date palms. They leave the house only for short walks along the dust roads to prayer halls or lecture rooms, rarely after dark, and never alone. Outside, they wear the abeyya, a voluminous black robe, and the niqab, a double-layered black face-veil. The unmarried women have no contact with men. Late that night, as the girls prepare for bed or sit softly reciting the Qur’an, Iman, an American convert, takes me aside. “You should wear niqab like we do. Then you won’t draw so much attention to yourself. None of us wear it at home, but when we’re here …”

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The following passage is part of a speech given by Barack Obama, future president of the United States, to his political party in 2004. In it he considers the rights children should have. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same speaker delivers another speech to his political party. In it he considers the rights of women. Write the opening of the speech (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Tonight is a particular honor for me because, let’s face it, my presence on this stage is pretty unlikely. My father was a foreign student, born and raised in a small village in Kenya. He grew up herding goats, went to school in a tin-roof shack. His father – my grandfather – was a cook, a domestic servant to the British. But my grandfather had larger dreams for his son. Through hard work and perseverance my father got a scholarship to study in a magical place, America, that shone as a beacon of freedom and opportunity to so many who had come before. While studying here, my father met my mother. She was born in a town on the other side of the world, in Kansas. Her father worked on oil rigs and farms through most of the Depression. The day after Pearl Harbor my grandfather signed up for duty; joined Patton’s army, marched across Europe. Back home, my grandmother raised a baby and went to work on a bomber assembly line. After the war, they studied on the G.I. Bill, bought a house through F.H.A., and later moved west all the way to Hawaii in search of opportunity. And they, too, had big dreams for their daughter. A common dream, born of two continents. My parents shared not only an improbable love, they shared an abiding faith in the possibilities of this nation. They would give me an African name, Barack, or ‘blessed’, believing that in a tolerant America your name is no barrier to success. They imagined – They imagined me going to the best schools in the land, even though they weren’t rich, because in a generous America you don’t have to be rich to achieve your potential. They’re both passed away now. And yet, I know that on this night they look down on me with great pride. They stand here – and I stand here today, grateful for the diversity of my heritage, aware that my parents’ dreams live on in my two precious daughters. I stand here knowing that my story is part of the larger American story, that I owe a debt to all of those who came before me, and that, in no other country on earth, is my story even possible … That is the true genius of America, a faith – a faith in simple dreams, an insistence on small miracles; that we can tuck in our children at night and know that they are fed and clothed and safe from harm; that we can say what we think, write what we think, without hearing a sudden knock on the door; that we can have an idea and start our own business without paying a bribe; that we can participate in the political process without fear of retribution; and that our votes will be counted – at least most of the time. And fellow Americans, Democrats, Republicans, Independents, I say to you tonight: We have more work to do – more work to do for the workers I met in Galesburg, Illinois, who are losing their union jobs at the Maytag plant that’s moving to Mexico, and now are having to compete with their own children for jobs that pay seven bucks an hour; more to do for the father that I met who was losing his job and choking back the tears, wondering how he would pay 4500 dollars a month for the drugs his son needs without the health benefits that he counted on; more to do © UCLES 2011

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3 for the young woman in East St. Louis, and thousands more like her, who has the grades, has the drive, has the will, but doesn’t have the money to go to college. 45 Now, don’t get me wrong. The people I meet – in small towns and big cities, in diners and office parks – they don’t expect government to solve all their problems. They know they have to work hard to get ahead, and they want to. Go into the collar counties around Chicago, and people will tell you they don’t want their tax money wasted, by a welfare agency or by the Pentagon. Go in – Go into any inner city 50 neighborhood, and folks will tell you that government alone can’t teach our kids to learn; they know that parents have to teach, that children can’t achieve unless we raise their expectations and turn off the television sets and eradicate the slander that says a black youth with a book is acting white. They know those things. People don’t expect – people don’t expect government to solve all their problems. 55 But they sense, deep in their bones, that with just a slight change in priorities, we can make sure that every child in America has a decent shot at life, and that the doors of opportunity remain open to all. They know we can do better. And they want that choice.

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4 2

The following passage describes the writer’s relationship with his father. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later, the writer finds part of his father’s autobiography in the suitcase. In one chapter the father describes his thoughts and feelings about his relationship with his son. Write the opening of the chapter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Two years before my father died, he gave me a small suitcase filled with his manuscripts and notebooks. Assuming his usual jocular, mocking air, he told me that he wanted me to read them after he was gone, by which he meant after his death. “Just take a look,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “See if there’s anything in there that you can use. Maybe after I’m gone you can make a selection and publish it.” We were in my study, surrounded by books. My father was searching for a place to set down the suitcase, wandering around like a man who wished to rid himself of a painful burden. In the end, he deposited it quietly, unobtrusively, in a corner. It was a shaming moment that neither of us ever quite forgot, but once it had passed and we had gone back to our usual roles, taking life lightly, we relaxed. We talked as we always did – about trivial, everyday things, and our country’s never-ending political troubles, and my father’s mostly failed business ventures – without feeling too much sorrow. For several days after that, I walked back and forth past the suitcase without ever actually touching it. I was already familiar with this small black leather case, with a lock and rounded corners. When I was a child, my father had taken it with him on short trips and had sometimes used it to carry documents to work. Whenever he came home from a trip, I’d rush to open this little suitcase and rummage through his things, savoring the scent of cologne and foreign countries. The suitcase was a friend, a powerful reminder of my past, but now I couldn’t even touch it. Why? No doubt because of the mysterious weight of its contents … When I did finally touch my father’s suitcase, I still could not bring myself to open it. But I knew what was inside some of the notebooks it held. I had seen my father writing in them. My father had a large library. In his youth, in the late nineteenforties, he had wanted to be a poet but he had not wanted to live the sort of life that came with writing poetry in a poor country where there were few readers. My father’s father – my grandfather – was a wealthy businessman, and my father had led a comfortable life as a child and a young man; he had no wish to endure hardship for the sake of literature, for writing. He loved life with all its beauties: this I understood. The first thing that kept me away from my father’s suitcase was, of course, a fear that I might not like what I read. Because my father understood this, too, he had taken the precaution of acting as if he did not take the contents of the case seriously. By this time, I had been working as a writer for twenty-five years, and his failure to take literature seriously pained me. But that was not what worried me most: my real fear – the crucial thing that I did not wish to discover – was that my father might be a good writer. If true and great literature emerged from my father’s suitcase, I would have to acknowledge that inside my father there existed a man who was entirely different from the one I knew. This was a frightening possibility. Even at my advanced age, I wanted my father to be my father and my father only – not a writer … So this was what was driving me when I first opened my father’s suitcase: Did my father have a secret, an unhappiness in his life that I knew nothing about, something that he could endure only by pouring it into his writing? As soon as I opened the suitcase, I recalled its scent of travel and recognized several notebooks that my father had shown me years earlier, though without dwelling on them for long. Most of the notebooks I now took in my hands he had filled when he was in Paris as a young man. Although, like so many writers I admired – writers whose biographies © UCLES 2011

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5 I had read – I wished to know what my father had written, and what he had thought, when he was the age I was now, it did not take me long to realize that I would find nothing like that here. What disturbed me most was when, now and again, in my father’s notebooks, I came upon a writerly voice. This was not my father’s voice, I 50 told myself; it wasn’t authentic, or, at least, it didn’t belong to the man I’d known as my father. Beneath my fear that my father might not have been my father when he wrote was a more profound fear: the fear that, deep inside, I was not authentic.

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6 3

The following passage describes an English writer’s visit to a place of religious study in Tarim, Yemen. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later, the writer visits another group of women studying in another country. She writes a magazine article describing the place and some of the people she met. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

On my flight from Dubai to the Yemeni capital, Sanaa, every other woman is wearing a black face veil. After the glitz and hustle of Dubai, Sanaa’s mud-brick old city feels dark, quiet and ancient. It is the summer monsoon and in the late afternoon the sunken street past the old city is suddenly waist-deep with rushing grey water, submerging a taxi. Four men with curved daggers thrust into their wide, gold-embroidered belts hitch up their white robes and wade in to heave it out. A crowd gathers, but the few women hurrying past, draped in black, do not stop. In Yemen the streets overwhelmingly belong to men. Tarim is remoter still, three hundred miles south-east across the desert in a vast canyon, the Wadi Hadhramaut. Descending towards the canyon’s little airport, the plane plunges into a landscape of tiny emerald-green fields set with date palms and crumbling mud-brick towers. Where the irrigation stops, the valley sides are dotted with the whitewashed tombs of local saints. The Hadhramaut tribe converted to Islam around the time of the Prophet’s death and it has been famous for its scholars and holy men ever since. The “place of miracles” turns out to be a nondescript grid of square concrete buildings under the high canyon walls. One of them conceals a tall, galleried white courtyard, where a dark-eyed Briton in black robes, Asma, is waiting for me. “Salaam, welcome to Dar al-Zahra,” she says, taking my hands. Little girls in coloured gowns bring metal cups of iced water and wave palm leaf fans while the older students, all in black, press round to wish me peace. They have been sent from Indonesia, East Africa and the Arab world to complete their years of Islamic study. But I have come to meet the “Dowra girls”, western Muslims on a forty day programme introducing them to a beginner’s version of life in the centre. In the windowless hallway of their separate home, a dozen twentysomething women in bright ankle-length house-gowns and headscarves are sitting on thin mattresses with their textbooks. They look tired and hot. “This is Rachel, our guest,” says Asma. The warmth of the girls’ welcome surprises me. They jump up, smiling, to wish me peace, hurry to bring tea and carry my bags – earnestly striving to live up to the religious virtue of hospitality. Aziza, a lively girl with heavy kohl rings around her dark eyes, introduces me. Many of my new housemates are, like Aziza, from Urdu-speaking BritishPakistani families, but there are also a handful of converts, including a South African lawyer called Samira, a Canadian student, Sara, and a blue-eyed English girl who has taken the Arabic name Nur, “Light”. When they head off, chattering, to the afternoon prayer, I explore the Dowra house. It is less like an austere religious retreat than a boarding school: it smells of shampoo, perfume and sweaty nylon, and the shared bathroom is a cheerful girly clutter of pink razors and make-up. But on the door someone has stuck a note in felt-tip pen: the duas – or special prayers – to be repeated before and after using the shower or toilet … We have been sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the floor for two hours and my knees and back are burning. Even the other girls are wincing. “Is it too strict?” I ask. © UCLES 2011

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7 “No, no,” says Aziza. “And the more you suffer, the more it proves your himma.” Himma is the virtue of spiritual aspiration, and the girls are keen to encourage each other in its feats. “When we’re really tired, I say, ‘Come on, girls’,” explains Aziza. “ ‘Remember that the darkness on the way to the mosque in the morning will be repaid with light on Judgment Day, when everyone else is in the dark.’ ” As we trail slowly back along the dust road, the girls describe the rules for students. They are based on the strict codes of behaviour that apply to Yemeni women, who are among the least educated and most cloistered in the world. Away from the concrete boxes of its outskirts, Tarim is an exotically beautiful town of merchants’ palaces and mud-brick mosques. But, unlike the male students, the girls are not allowed to visit the fruit and vegetable market, drink Fanta in the couple of grill cafes or visit the tumbledown outdoor teahouse in the shade of the date palms. They leave the house only for short walks along the dust roads to prayer halls or lecture rooms, rarely after dark, and never alone. Outside, they wear the abeyya, a voluminous black robe, and the niqab, a double-layered black face-veil. The unmarried women have no contact with men. Late that night, as the girls prepare for bed or sit softly reciting the Qur’an, Iman, an American convert, takes me aside. “You should wear niqab like we do. Then you won’t draw so much attention to yourself. None of us wear it at home, but when we’re here …”

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2 Answer two questions

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In the following passage, from a travel website, the writer describes his first experience of a wedding in Mongolia. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same writer visits another country. He puts an account of his experience of one of its national customs on the same website. Write the opening of the account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Throughout the evening people came to warn me about themselves. They sat on the grass outside my tent, unburdening themselves with confessions. The following day would be difficult, they said. Weddings were boisterous occasions. People became unpredictable. They counselled me about particular individuals, then admitted that they themselves could be as bad as the next fellow. I would be wise to get away early before things got out of hand. In the morning the groom and his supporters, a party of about seven or eight relations, set off to fetch the bride from her ger,1 which lay some 15 miles away. An old Russian truck, the equivalent of the wedding Rolls-Royce, had been specially hired for the occasion. When they arrived, the groom would be obliged to search for his bride, who by tradition must hide from him. It would not be too difficult. The tradition is that she hides under a bed in the neighbouring ger. While we waited for their return we were given breakfast in the newlyweds’ ger. Over the past weeks it had been lovingly prepared by relations. It was like a show ger from Ideal Gers. Decorations included a poster of the inspirational figure of Batardene, the national wrestling champion, which had been hung in a prominent position above the marital bed. Biscuits, slabs of white cheese and boiled sweets had been arrayed on every surface in dizzy tiers like wedding cakes. On a low stool stood a mountainous plate of sheep parts, with the favoured cut, the great fatty tail, like a grey glacier on its summit. Younger sisters hustled in and out making last-minute preparations. While we were at breakfast the first lookouts were posted to watch for the return of the truck bearing the wedding party from the bride’s camp. By mid-afternoon we were still waiting. Apparently a wedding breakfast would have been given to the groom and his accompanying party at the bride’s camp, and complicated calculations were now performed concerning the number of miles to the bride’s ger, divided by the speed of the truck combined with the probable duration of the breakfast, and finally multiplied by the estimated consumption of arkhi, a clear spirit distilled from milk. At four o’clock a spiral of dust finally appeared beyond a distant ridge. When the truck drew up in front of the wedding ger, it was clear that the lavish hospitality of the bride’s camp had been the cause of the delay. The back of the truck was crammed with wedding guests in such a state of dishevelled merriment that we had some difficulty persuading them to disembark. The bride’s mother, apparently convinced that they were at the wrong ger, required four men to convey her to terra firma.2 The bride’s elder sister, shrugging off all assistance, fell headfirst from the tailgate, bounced twice and came to rest, smiling, against a door post. Once everyone was down from the truck, the bride and the groom stood respectfully to one side while the wedding party crowded into the new ger. The groom was tall and thin with a long, angular face. The bride, as round as he was linear, came up to his waist. Throughout the happy day they behaved like disappointed parties on a first date, never once meeting each other’s eyes. © UCLES 2012

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3 For the bride this was part of Mongolian tradition. She was meant to display a demure reluctance, deemed to be commensurate with feminine modesty. Her new husband was part of a wider tradition: the nervous, slightly shell-shocked bridegroom 45 familiar in every culture. Their curious distance from the general jollity was made worse by the fact that they remained the only sober members of the wedding party. Inside the newlyweds’ ger, the two families took up positions on either side of the tent like opposing armies. Numbering 50 or 60 people, they were crowded together with the kind of intimacy usually reserved for the morning rush hour on the 50 Tokyo subway. The unexpected presence of me, a foreigner, was seen as a sign of good fortune for the success of the union and I had been squeezed into the lap of one of the groom’s brothers. At my back were the sharp knees of a long, disapproving line 55 of grannies and elderly aunts seated on cots. 1ger : 2terra

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dwelling (an elaborate tent) firma: solid ground

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4 2

The following passage describes the writer’s thoughts and feelings about the enthusiasm for sheds among male family members. (A shed is an outbuilding where tools are normally stored.) (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Louis’s father sits in his shed writing his autobiography. In one section he explains why he feels all men need their own space. Write the section (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Under an old apple tree at the top of the garden, dappled in sunshine, is a small green shed. It sits a few yards from the hedge that separates our tiny patch of garden. Within the shed, presumably far from me, its occupant, Louis, our 13-yearold, is doing whatever it is that the male of the species tends to do in a small shed. Precisely what that is I cannot say, because with sheds, there is an unofficial omerta1 that forbids the owner divulging his activities therein to any female. Louis may or may not be the youngest shed-dweller in Britain today, but he is surely the proudest. Offered carte blanche2 (within financial, legal and moral reason), the choice of any present to mark his shift into teenagerdom, this 8 × 6 ft building was his first choice. Surely, I suggested, he would prefer something electronic or mildly dangerous, something with wheels? Something flashy and gaudy, possibly something with an apple logo on its outer casing? But no. A shed, and only a shed, would do. His father took a different view when I relayed the news and the beam of paternal pride was clearly audible even at a distance of 130 miles. “That’s my boy,” he said, speaking from his own shed. Louis’s shed, however, and his father’s could hardly be more different. Where Louis’s is like a Morris Minor car, being tiny and purely functional, his father’s is a luxury Bentley convertible. Technically, it’s true, the entire roof doesn’t come off (although there is a skylight). Yet it is a powerful and well-equipped machine, electrified and connected to the main water supply. It houses not only a flat-screen television, DVD player, reclining leather armchair, capacious bookshelves and an L-shaped execu-desk, but also a lavatory and what an estate agent might call a bijou kitchenette. It arrived 10 years ago, ready made. Ready made, but bespoke in that it was finished according to precise instructions – not until then or since then has my husband applied himself so fully to the tiny details. It was lowered, spinning on the end of a crane, into the bottom of our London garden. Our rear neighbour complained to the council who told her there was nothing she could do. She sold up and moved to Australia. Louis, five at the time, was naturally intrigued by this new dwelling and asked whether it meant that his father was going to live in it. I told him not to be daft, although of course I knew that he had hit on the truth. For those eight years, Louis has been my shed spy. Where my daily visits with tea and toast are invariably intercepted at the door, Louis is permitted at least some limited access. Each day (during term time when we are in London) when he returns from school, he runs down to the shed and then reports back to me. “He’s pretending to be working,” is the most common observance, “and he’s not in a good mood because he’s just had his aces cracked by an imbecile who called with a pair of threes and hit his set on the flop.” Louis does seem worryingly au fait3 with the terminology of internet poker games. Sometimes, however, he will report that his father is actually working at his computer. More frequently, the news will be that he is shouting at a sportsman on the TV, reading a biography of an American president or rearranging his collection of £1 coins into taller piles.

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5 My husband and I had a long talk about all this once when I hadn’t seen him for three whole days. He paced the room when I asked him what it all meant and said: “What you must try to understand is that every man is an emotional inadequate and we need weird, ritualistic order in our lives. We need space where we can insulate ourselves from emotional contact with others, particularly our female superiors. This 50 is the true meaning of the shed.” So there we have it. Once, long ago, I naively assumed that a shed was a storage space for tools. My husband happens to be the kind of man who would no more allow a garden tool in his shed than a large lump of glowing plutonium. The closest thing to a tool is the dinky little penknife he uses to scrape the filth from the 55 bowls of the tobacco pipes he puffs on, of which he seems to have almost as many as pound coins. 1omerta: a

rule or code that prevents information being shared 2carte 3au

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blanche: free choice

fait : familiar

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6 3

The following passage describes some thoughts and feelings about the environment. In it the writer sees the world through the eyes of an animal. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The writer publishes another article in which she speaks on behalf of another endangered species in the natural world. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

I am thinking about the end of the world – not because I am religious, but because I am a polar bear, and the world will end for me faster than it will for you, and you’ll put some of me in zoos and special chill nature reserves, but what you will really be excited about is oil and trade and who controls the North West Passage. And I will be a monster because only monsters have no home. When you take my world away from me I’m going to come and live with you. All your civilisation and all your science will be on the outside, along with all your trade and aid. Inside, there will be me. Your inner polar bear – the wild free place white pristine – sun dropped red behind my head – head back jaw open swallowing pounds and pounds of fresh killed life raw clean cold. The dive of me the weight of me. I will be everything you have lost. I will be everything you neglected. I will be everything you forgot. I will be the wild place sold for money. You see, when I lived far away, you knew I was there, and I kept something for you, even though you had never seen a polar bear or an ice floe. Even though you are not adapted to my conditions. I kept your wild, cold, raw. And the lion keeps something for you, and the mangrove swamp and the coral and the spider and the wren. You think I am a stupid polar bear? Go up into space and look back at this diamond cut planet, polar capped, white whirled. It is one planet, one place, and there is nothing else like it anywhere in the solar system. When you see it whole, you remember that it’s not polar bears over there, and snakes over here; it’s one place, one strange special place. It comes as a whole or not at all. You will live longer than us – my kind, not just my polar bear kind but all of us who need a home and you so envious that you want all the homes, leaving nothing you can’t sell or rent. Enclosure of the whole world … Climb on my back and I’ll carry you to the top of the snow-silent mountains and let you look out over the rim of the earth. Look, beyond us are the stars, and if I reach with my paws I can use the stars as footholds. Higher now, through the witnesses, which I think the stars are – the roof of our life bright with silver eyes. What do they see? This blue planet, and near her, the white moon that holds us in her gravitational pull, so that we spin at the speed of life. Not too fast, not too slow, the speed of life. As I climb through the stars, stretching myself into a constellation, The Great Polar Bear,1 I wonder how many millions of years it will be before a wiser species than hom*o sapiens2 inhabits the earth? And I wonder if I will ever come home? When the earth re-evolves herself, after the plagues, the bombs, the wipe-outs, the lights-out, will there be polar bears? And lions? And wrens? When earth begins again I would like to slide down a chute of stars into an icy untamed sea and swim through the cold to the ice-floe where there will be others like me, not monsters, homed. A place to be. But until then I would rather climb away, not wait for the last piece of ice to melt, but climb into the airless cold of outer space where I too can be a witness to what happens next.

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7 Once upon a time there was a polar bear. He had nowhere to live so he came 45 to live in your head. You started to think polar bear thoughts about iciness and wilderness. You went shopping and looked at fish. At night you dreamed your skin was fur. When you got in the bath you dropped through nameless waters deeper than regret. You left the cold tap running. You flooded the house. You dived into winter with no clothes on. You sought loneliness. You wanted to see the sun rise 50 after a night that lasted as long as all the things you have done wrong. You wanted to see the sun come up and no one to be near you. You wanted to look out over the rim of the world. But you live in the city and the rest is gone. And all the longings and all the loss can’t bring back the dead. The most beautiful place on earth was everywhere – a raft in the wilderness of space, 55 precarious, unlikely, our polar bear home. 1The

Great Polar Bear : a reference to The Great Bear, a group of stars that can be seen in the northern hemisphere 2hom*o

sapiens: the human race (Latin for ‘wise man’)

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2 Answer two questions.

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In the following passage, from a travel website, the writer describes her thoughts and feelings as she travels to a dance studio in the city of Buenos Aires in Argentina. She is about to experience the country’s national dance, the tango. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same writer visits another country. She writes an account of her experience of one of its national customs on the same website. Write the opening of the account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

My cab is stuck to the asphalt like its tyres are melting in the thirty five degree heat. The Obelisco1 looms up ahead from its restless bed in the centre of Avenida 9 de Julio. Horns hit my ears. The aircon blast can’t mask the stale drift of cigarette from my taxista’s2 clothes, as he shifts to stare back at me. He’s just found out I’m British, but speak enough Spanish to converse with him. My answers flow pat, the minutes tick slow, and the meter racks up, but I can bear it this afternoon: my mind is on the new four inch stiletto heels in my bag. On the pavement opposite Suipacha 384 I look up. I always do. The suspended sign that will glow red neon by night; the broken windows that cannot keep the beckoning melodies from the street; the stone balcony on which I have stood, and smoked, and caught my breath so many times. I delay. Buy mints. Drag out the seconds until I will mount the stairs and allow the music to drown out the background chatter of my life. It’s my ritual: a calming; a buffer zone between the chaotic and bliss. The steps to the first floor are worn to shallow smiles. Who has climbed them across the decades? Pugliese on the way to his piano keys; Pablo Veron en route to stardom; Sally Potter3 blazing the trail, the likes of me in her wake; and the strangers who now, this minute, wait to take me in their arms. A gust of hot wind blows the balcony curtain towards me as I pass, a caress of wine red velvet on my hand. I push my money across the smooth counter of wood and exchange kisses with the hostess, You’re late, I thought you weren’t coming. How was your week? Are you alone today? I am. She guides me to my table, although I know it as a home: the layered cream and red coloured cloths scarred by cigarette burns and flung into unruly folds by the draughts from the huge wall fans; the two crimson leather chairs with their buttock-dented seats; the marble column around which I will have to peer with determination, to catch the farthest male eyes. I do not look up as I prepare. Instead, I keep my gaze on my Cinderella shoes as they slide out of their silk bag. I focus only on my transformation, slip my naked feet into silver metallic snake-skin, adjust tiny buckles and thin straps, flex my ankles awake: unseen below the cloak of the table cloth. The waiter appears, all bow tie and apron, and I order my agua con gas and a cortado4: coffee will heighten my senses and the water will cool me. I place my fan on the table. My mints. Adjust the clip in my hair. Finally I’m ready. I raise my eyes. On the smooth polished stone, pairs of bodies weave their unique and silent songs. Each close embrace carries two hearts and two souls in its arms. Music transports the soul. The soul directs the feet. The feet dance. I see my regular dance partners: I already know where we will walk together today. I linger over the men who I’ve never touched: how will it be to lean into their chests, their heartbeats, the voices of their dance? The clues undulate before me and I search them out: a body shape, a height, a hand touching a back, the smoothness of a step, an expression on a partner’s face, even the way he escorts her from the floor when the tango ends with the shock of rock and roll. I hold each © UCLES 2012

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3 man in my gaze, one after the other, and I smile because I find him quite easily today: the stranger I will accept if the music insists that I take a risk, and his eyes find mine. The first notes of another tango surge into five o’clock and I decide. My eyes do not leave him as he sips his glass of champagne. He looks up, and straight at me. I glance away. I put down my fan. I glance back. His stare is constant. Me. He wants me too. He inclines his head. Slowly and deliberately, I nod my acceptance. He stands and begins his walk towards me. I take off my glasses: I know that for the next four tangos he is mine. I am about to discover the story of an unknown soul. 1Obelisco: 2taxista’s:

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… Pablo Veron … Sally Potter : famous tango musician/dancers 4agua

con gas and a cortado: sparkling water and strong coffee

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4 2

The following passage describes the writer’s relationship with his stepfather. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Mrs Grant, the housekeeper, writes a letter to a friend in which she describes the boy’s relationship with his stepfather. Write the opening of the letter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

My love of food began long ago. As far as I can remember, in fact. And it started with an Aga1 and rice pudding. The Aga was a vast cream and black monster, glowering on the stone floor of the farm kitchen. It had doors, drawers, dials and apertures enough to fascinate the curiosity of a six-year-old boy with an undiluted imagination. From the moment I saw it, I was beguiled and drawn into every part of its system. Agas are astounding creatures. Domesticated dinosaurs. They offer warmth and solace, and you can learn everything you ever need to know about cooking on their plates and in their furnaces. But strangely, for me, of all the roasts, stews and tarts, the most remarkable dish cooked in that Aga was rice pudding. It was firm and creamy, with a lemony zest and crisp blackened skin. My first memory of rice pudding is etched with force. It symbolises an act of compassion in the midst of despair. For the Aga also represented a dangerous nemesis.2 When my mother and I moved to a farm to live with Graham, my stepfather, I was five. In the first days of this strange new parent, I was confused and detached. For security, I found the bewitching warmth of this huge cast-iron beast in the kitchen. At any opportunity, I hid beside its hot water boiler. I unscrewed one of the knobs from the controls of this contraption. Its spark went out. It was no more than a childish misdeed. But not for Graham. He was master of his home. Such disorder was intolerable. At that age, a little boy will do anything to avoid trouble, so I lied. But to him my fibs were a sign of creeping moral ambiguity. I was banished in disgrace to my room, a terrible punishment for a lively and gregarious child. The following day, in exile, as I lay shivering and hungry in my bedroom, a quiet knock came and the door opened gingerly. A bowl of steaming rice pudding was set down on the floor. Mrs Grant, the housekeeper, one of my first saviours. Though this punishment, and others, happened many times subsequently, no one else ever admitted to me that they knew about what was going on. None of my stepfather’s brutal strategies really worked. And despite my suffering, instead of submitting, my will grew stronger. And he became more enraged by me. War was declared, and even at that young age, I knew how to exact revenge. He loved food. He was greedy, even. So was I. And we were a fair match. He had lived on that farm for almost 30 years and had full-time gardeners to oversee the kitchen garden, orchards and greenhouses. He had apricots and pears, white muscatel grapes and figs under glass, nectarine houses and asparagus beds, heated with lead wires in the ground. From redcurrants to his sacred Royal Sovereign strawberries, the gardens were a cornucopia3 that became my plundering ground. In the evenings, my stepfather would wander through the greenhouses or past the apple trees, checking for the perfect ripeness of his latest progeny. He would never touch the fruit, for as any gardener will know, they carry a ‘bloom’, a sort of musty blush, that must be untouched for the perfect fruit. Soon he began to notice an early predator had been at his prizes. Little finger marks on the bloom betrayed a thief among the nettings and glass. Just before he was ready to pluck a succulent nectarine from the tree, it vanished. He loved chocolate, too, and hid boxes of expensive truffles and dark chocolate bars around his private spaces in the house. I knew them all, and feasted on the spoils. © UCLES 2012

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5 This war of attrition carried on for years but in the end he knew he couldn’t win. Eventually an uneasy truce settled. We learned to get along. 1Aga:

a large metal oven

2nemesis: source 3cornucopia:

© UCLES 2012

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of retribution and vengeance

a rich variety

[Turn over

6 3

The following passage is an account of the writer’s fascination with trees. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The same writer produces another account in which he reflects on his relationship with another aspect of the natural world. Write the opening of the section (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

I come out solemnly with a pencil and an exercise book, and take my seat in all gravity at the foot of a large fir-tree, and wait for thoughts to come, gnawing like a squirrel on a nut. But the nut’s hollow. I think there are too many trees. They seem to crowd round and stare at me, and I feel as if they nudged one another when I’m not looking. I can feel them standing there. And they won’t let me get on. Just their cussedness1. I felt they encouraged me like a harem of wonderful silent wives. It is half rainy too—the wood so damp and still and so secret, in the remote morning air. Morning, with rain in the sky, and the forest subtly brooding, and me feeling no bigger than a bug between the roots of my fir. The trees seem so much bigger than me, so much stronger in life, prowling silent around. I seem to feel them moving and thinking and prowling, and they overwhelm me. Ah, well, the only thing is to give way to them. This is the edge of the Black Forest in Germany – sometimes I can see the Rhine river far off, like a bit of magnesium ribbon. But not today. Today only trees, and leaves, and vegetable presences. Huge straight fir-trees, and big beech-trees sending rivers of roots into the ground. And cuckoos, like noise falling in drops off the leaves. And me, a fool, sitting by a grassy wood-road with a pencil and a book, hoping to write. Never mind. I listen again for noises, and I smell the damp moss. The looming trees, so straight. And I listen for their silence. Big, tall-bodied trees, with a certain magnificent cruelty about them. Or barbarity. I don’t know why I should say cruelty. Their magnificent, strong, round bodies! It almost seems I can hear the slow, powerful sap drumming in their trunks. Great full-blooded trees, with strange treeblood in them, soundlessly drumming. Trees that have no hands and faces, no eyes. Yet the powerful sap-scented blood roaring up the great columns. A vast individual life, and an overshadowing will. The will of a tree. Something that frightens you. Suppose you want to look a tree in the face? You can’t. It hasn’t got a face. You look at the strong body of a trunk: you look above you into the matted body-hair of twigs and boughs: you see the soft green tips. But there are no eyes to look into, you can’t meet its gaze. It’s no good looking at a tree, to know it. The only thing is to sit among the roots and nestle against its strong trunk, and not bother. That’s how I write, between the toes of a tree, forgetting myself against the great ankle of the trunk. And then, as a rule, as a squirrel is stroked into its wickedness by the faceless magic of a tree, so am I usually stroked into forgetfulness, and into scribbling this book. My tree-book, really. This marvellous vast individual without a face, without lips or eyes or heart. This towering creature that never had a face. Here am I between his toes like a bug, and him noiselessly over-reaching me. And I feel his great blood-jet surging. And he has no eyes. But he turns two ways. He thrusts himself tremendously down to the middle earth, where dead men sink in darkness, in the damp, dense under-soil, and he turns himself about in high air. Whereas we have eyes on one side of our head only, and only grow upwards. Plunging himself down into the black humus, with a root’s gushing zest, where we can only rot dead; and his tips in high air, where we can only look up to. So vast © UCLES 2012

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7 and powerful and exultant in his two directions. And all the time, he has no face, no thought: only a huge, savage, thoughtless soul. Where does he even keep his soul?—Where does anybody? But now they are my only shelter and strength. I lose myself among the trees. I am so glad to be with them in their silent, intent passion. 1cussedness:

© UCLES 2012

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obstinacy

50

2 Answer two questions.

1

In the following passage, from a travel website, the writer describes her thoughts and feelings as she travels to a dance studio in the city of Buenos Aires in Argentina. She is about to experience the country’s national dance, the tango. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The same writer visits another country. She writes an account of her experience of one of its national customs on the same website. Write the opening of the account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

My cab is stuck to the asphalt like its tyres are melting in the thirty five degree heat. The Obelisco1 looms up ahead from its restless bed in the centre of Avenida 9 de Julio. Horns hit my ears. The aircon blast can’t mask the stale drift of cigarette from my taxista’s2 clothes, as he shifts to stare back at me. He’s just found out I’m British, but speak enough Spanish to converse with him. My answers flow pat, the minutes tick slow, and the meter racks up, but I can bear it this afternoon: my mind is on the new four inch stiletto heels in my bag. On the pavement opposite Suipacha 384 I look up. I always do. The suspended sign that will glow red neon by night; the broken windows that cannot keep the beckoning melodies from the street; the stone balcony on which I have stood, and smoked, and caught my breath so many times. I delay. Buy mints. Drag out the seconds until I will mount the stairs and allow the music to drown out the background chatter of my life. It’s my ritual: a calming; a buffer zone between the chaotic and bliss. The steps to the first floor are worn to shallow smiles. Who has climbed them across the decades? Pugliese on the way to his piano keys; Pablo Veron en route to stardom; Sally Potter3 blazing the trail, the likes of me in her wake; and the strangers who now, this minute, wait to take me in their arms. A gust of hot wind blows the balcony curtain towards me as I pass, a caress of wine red velvet on my hand. I push my money across the smooth counter of wood and exchange kisses with the hostess, You’re late, I thought you weren’t coming. How was your week? Are you alone today? I am. She guides me to my table, although I know it as a home: the layered cream and red coloured cloths scarred by cigarette burns and flung into unruly folds by the draughts from the huge wall fans; the two crimson leather chairs with their buttock-dented seats; the marble column around which I will have to peer with determination, to catch the farthest male eyes. I do not look up as I prepare. Instead, I keep my gaze on my Cinderella shoes as they slide out of their silk bag. I focus only on my transformation, slip my naked feet into silver metallic snake-skin, adjust tiny buckles and thin straps, flex my ankles awake: unseen below the cloak of the table cloth. The waiter appears, all bow tie and apron, and I order my agua con gas and a cortado4: coffee will heighten my senses and the water will cool me. I place my fan on the table. My mints. Adjust the clip in my hair. Finally I’m ready. I raise my eyes. On the smooth polished stone, pairs of bodies weave their unique and silent songs. Each close embrace carries two hearts and two souls in its arms. Music transports the soul. The soul directs the feet. The feet dance. I see my regular dance partners: I already know where we will walk together today. I linger over the men who I’ve never touched: how will it be to lean into their chests, their heartbeats, the voices of their dance? The clues undulate before me and I search them out: a body shape, a height, a hand touching a back, the smoothness of a step, an expression on a partner’s face, even the way he escorts her from the floor when the tango ends with the shock of rock and roll. I hold each © UCLES 2012

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3 man in my gaze, one after the other, and I smile because I find him quite easily today: the stranger I will accept if the music insists that I take a risk, and his eyes find mine. The first notes of another tango surge into five o’clock and I decide. My eyes do not leave him as he sips his glass of champagne. He looks up, and straight at me. I glance away. I put down my fan. I glance back. His stare is constant. Me. He wants me too. He inclines his head. Slowly and deliberately, I nod my acceptance. He stands and begins his walk towards me. I take off my glasses: I know that for the next four tangos he is mine. I am about to discover the story of an unknown soul. 1Obelisco: 2taxista’s:

45

50

a large monument

taxi driver’s

3Pugliese

… Pablo Veron … Sally Potter : famous tango musician/dancers 4agua

con gas and a cortado: sparkling water and strong coffee

© UCLES 2012

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[Turn over

4 2

The following passage describes the writer’s relationship with his stepfather. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Mrs Grant, the housekeeper, writes a letter to a friend in which she describes the boy’s relationship with his stepfather. Write the opening of the letter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

My love of food began long ago. As far as I can remember, in fact. And it started with an Aga1 and rice pudding. The Aga was a vast cream and black monster, glowering on the stone floor of the farm kitchen. It had doors, drawers, dials and apertures enough to fascinate the curiosity of a six-year-old boy with an undiluted imagination. From the moment I saw it, I was beguiled and drawn into every part of its system. Agas are astounding creatures. Domesticated dinosaurs. They offer warmth and solace, and you can learn everything you ever need to know about cooking on their plates and in their furnaces. But strangely, for me, of all the roasts, stews and tarts, the most remarkable dish cooked in that Aga was rice pudding. It was firm and creamy, with a lemony zest and crisp blackened skin. My first memory of rice pudding is etched with force. It symbolises an act of compassion in the midst of despair. For the Aga also represented a dangerous nemesis.2 When my mother and I moved to a farm to live with Graham, my stepfather, I was five. In the first days of this strange new parent, I was confused and detached. For security, I found the bewitching warmth of this huge cast-iron beast in the kitchen. At any opportunity, I hid beside its hot water boiler. I unscrewed one of the knobs from the controls of this contraption. Its spark went out. It was no more than a childish misdeed. But not for Graham. He was master of his home. Such disorder was intolerable. At that age, a little boy will do anything to avoid trouble, so I lied. But to him my fibs were a sign of creeping moral ambiguity. I was banished in disgrace to my room, a terrible punishment for a lively and gregarious child. The following day, in exile, as I lay shivering and hungry in my bedroom, a quiet knock came and the door opened gingerly. A bowl of steaming rice pudding was set down on the floor. Mrs Grant, the housekeeper, one of my first saviours. Though this punishment, and others, happened many times subsequently, no one else ever admitted to me that they knew about what was going on. None of my stepfather’s brutal strategies really worked. And despite my suffering, instead of submitting, my will grew stronger. And he became more enraged by me. War was declared, and even at that young age, I knew how to exact revenge. He loved food. He was greedy, even. So was I. And we were a fair match. He had lived on that farm for almost 30 years and had full-time gardeners to oversee the kitchen garden, orchards and greenhouses. He had apricots and pears, white muscatel grapes and figs under glass, nectarine houses and asparagus beds, heated with lead wires in the ground. From redcurrants to his sacred Royal Sovereign strawberries, the gardens were a cornucopia3 that became my plundering ground. In the evenings, my stepfather would wander through the greenhouses or past the apple trees, checking for the perfect ripeness of his latest progeny. He would never touch the fruit, for as any gardener will know, they carry a ‘bloom’, a sort of musty blush, that must be untouched for the perfect fruit. Soon he began to notice an early predator had been at his prizes. Little finger marks on the bloom betrayed a thief among the nettings and glass. Just before he was ready to pluck a succulent nectarine from the tree, it vanished. He loved chocolate, too, and hid boxes of expensive truffles and dark chocolate bars around his private spaces in the house. I knew them all, and feasted on the spoils. © UCLES 2012

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5 This war of attrition carried on for years but in the end he knew he couldn’t win. Eventually an uneasy truce settled. We learned to get along. 1Aga:

a large metal oven

2nemesis: source 3cornucopia:

© UCLES 2012

8693/13/M/J/12

of retribution and vengeance

a rich variety

[Turn over

6 3

The following passage is an account of the writer’s fascination with trees. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The same writer produces another account in which he reflects on his relationship with another aspect of the natural world. Write the opening of the section (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

I come out solemnly with a pencil and an exercise book, and take my seat in all gravity at the foot of a large fir-tree, and wait for thoughts to come, gnawing like a squirrel on a nut. But the nut’s hollow. I think there are too many trees. They seem to crowd round and stare at me, and I feel as if they nudged one another when I’m not looking. I can feel them standing there. And they won’t let me get on. Just their cussedness1. I felt they encouraged me like a harem of wonderful silent wives. It is half rainy too—the wood so damp and still and so secret, in the remote morning air. Morning, with rain in the sky, and the forest subtly brooding, and me feeling no bigger than a bug between the roots of my fir. The trees seem so much bigger than me, so much stronger in life, prowling silent around. I seem to feel them moving and thinking and prowling, and they overwhelm me. Ah, well, the only thing is to give way to them. This is the edge of the Black Forest in Germany – sometimes I can see the Rhine river far off, like a bit of magnesium ribbon. But not today. Today only trees, and leaves, and vegetable presences. Huge straight fir-trees, and big beech-trees sending rivers of roots into the ground. And cuckoos, like noise falling in drops off the leaves. And me, a fool, sitting by a grassy wood-road with a pencil and a book, hoping to write. Never mind. I listen again for noises, and I smell the damp moss. The looming trees, so straight. And I listen for their silence. Big, tall-bodied trees, with a certain magnificent cruelty about them. Or barbarity. I don’t know why I should say cruelty. Their magnificent, strong, round bodies! It almost seems I can hear the slow, powerful sap drumming in their trunks. Great full-blooded trees, with strange treeblood in them, soundlessly drumming. Trees that have no hands and faces, no eyes. Yet the powerful sap-scented blood roaring up the great columns. A vast individual life, and an overshadowing will. The will of a tree. Something that frightens you. Suppose you want to look a tree in the face? You can’t. It hasn’t got a face. You look at the strong body of a trunk: you look above you into the matted body-hair of twigs and boughs: you see the soft green tips. But there are no eyes to look into, you can’t meet its gaze. It’s no good looking at a tree, to know it. The only thing is to sit among the roots and nestle against its strong trunk, and not bother. That’s how I write, between the toes of a tree, forgetting myself against the great ankle of the trunk. And then, as a rule, as a squirrel is stroked into its wickedness by the faceless magic of a tree, so am I usually stroked into forgetfulness, and into scribbling this book. My tree-book, really. This marvellous vast individual without a face, without lips or eyes or heart. This towering creature that never had a face. Here am I between his toes like a bug, and him noiselessly over-reaching me. And I feel his great blood-jet surging. And he has no eyes. But he turns two ways. He thrusts himself tremendously down to the middle earth, where dead men sink in darkness, in the damp, dense under-soil, and he turns himself about in high air. Whereas we have eyes on one side of our head only, and only grow upwards. Plunging himself down into the black humus, with a root’s gushing zest, where we can only rot dead; and his tips in high air, where we can only look up to. So vast © UCLES 2012

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7 and powerful and exultant in his two directions. And all the time, he has no face, no thought: only a huge, savage, thoughtless soul. Where does he even keep his soul?—Where does anybody? But now they are my only shelter and strength. I lose myself among the trees. I am so glad to be with them in their silent, intent passion. 1cussedness:

© UCLES 2012

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obstinacy

50

2 Answer two questions.

1

The following passage is an account of the writer’s first experience of work, picking blueberries on a farm during his school vacation. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The same writer finds a different kind of job in his next vacation and writes an account of his thoughts and feelings. Write the opening of this account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10] After the last pickers left for home, and the final flats1 were weighed and loaded and secured on flat bed trucks, the drivers headed for a warehouse far away. The farm owner and his hands would gather and stack all the flats, carts, and stray baskets – then load up everything and, after a last stop at the outhouse, unload all the equipment at a storage shed and go home to await their pay – then move on to the next crop.

5

The quiet berry fields were left alone to begin their long summer, fall and winter vacations until the following spring, when we would show up to harvest them. Some of us were willing, while many more hadn’t the first clue what real work entailed. It was amazing that the crop owners allowed neighborhood youth in the fields for as 10 many years as they did. I get up early that first morning, grab my lunch and catch the bus – but I can’t sleep, because even this early in the day the beat-up school bus is packed with youth. I don’t know any of these kids and wonder where they all come from. After all, this is the country – farms and older houses sitting on over-sized lots of a couple acres. If 15 these guys are from the neighborhood I should have seen them at school. Makes me a little uncomfortable to be traveling with unfamiliar people to an unfamiliar location. The only things I recognize are the lunch Mom made last night, my Dad’s tin-covered Aladdin thermos covered with scenes of generic men in various fly fishing poses, and my reflection in the bus window. 20 But wait – there is one other familiar sight – our bus driver, Mr. Stang. Though he’s my junior high school teacher, the recognition brings no comfort. Of all my instructors at school this year, he has to be the strangest. Aside from his dictatorial demeanor and mercurial temper, he is also cross-eyed, and the effect his conflicted gaze has on 7th and 8th graders – especially when Stang is annoyed – is unsettling, to say 25 the least. Every so often he fills the rear view mirror with separate but menacing gazes, and every so often he yells at some malcontent, but it’s the weekend and he’s supposed to be off duty. And for most of the trip he keeps a lid on it – but in the back of my mind lurks the potential for disaster should one of us do something to rub him the 30 wrong way. So the bus rattles along, and this being a typical early June morning in Oregon, drizzle lends a gray, depressing cast to the road ahead and behind, as well as the houses, sky and scenery. Looks more like winter than early spring. After a while Mr. Stang steers the long yellow bus off the highway onto a rough, 35 hilly dirt road for a good 200 yards. Then the bus comes to a much too abrupt halt, considering we’re on farmland. © UCLES 2013

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3 Stang yanks the polished door release handle and the narrow double doors fly open. “Everybody off!” he shouts, and we all stumble down the aisle and out of the yellow beast, wondering if this is the day we’ll make the big bucks. At least that’s what I’m 40 hoping. The first row is always the hardest. Having left the relative comfort of the bus, I grab an empty flat, and decide to use a cart to hold it – though that thing was more trouble than it was worth, last time out – and I’ve been assigned a row. Now I have to make that initial move that will immediately get those nice dry pants all muddy and 45 wet. I get down on my knees and assume the harvesting position. Once that’s done, I begin the uncomfortable work that is berry picking. When I finally haul a flat of berries to the spot where the scales are, and am told that either the baskets aren’t full enough, or that all my hard work has amounted to a mere $1.50, I realize how far I am from home, and how long this day is going to be. 50 Walking down the narrow path flanked by berry plants, I search for a couple of minutes before finding the place where I left off. Now comes the big decision: Should I pick standing up or kneeling? Looking out across the uncountable rows I see people employing one of several techniques, some (even at this early hour) having 55 abandoned any pretense of honest labor, opting for the seated position. At first I look upon them with scorn. “Slackers! Lazy bums!” But returning to the task at hand, basket in position, I bend over and start picking fruit. 1

flats : containers for fruit

© UCLES 2013

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[Turn over

4 2

The following passage comes from a short story set in World War Two. Miss Anstruther’s home has been destroyed by bombing. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) A local newspaper reporter interviews Miss Anstruther and publishes an article about what has happened to her. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Miss Anstruther, whose life had been cut in two on the night of 10 May 1941, so that she now felt herself a ghost, without attachments or habitation, neither of which she any longer desired, sat alone in the bed-sitting-room she had taken, a small room, littered with the grimy, broken and useless objects which she had salvaged from the burnt-out ruin round the corner. It was one of the many burnt-out ruins of 5 that wild night when high explosives and incendiaries had rained on London and the water had run short: it was now a gaunt and roofless tomb, a pile of ashes and rubble and burnt, smashed beams. Where the floors of twelve flats had been, there was empty space. Miss Anstruther had for the first few days climbed up to what had been her flat, on what had been the third floor, swarming up pendent fragments of 10 beams and broken girders, searching and scrabbling among ashes and rubble, but not finding what she sought, only here a pot, there a pan, sheltered from destruction by an overhanging slant of ceiling. Her marmalade had been there, and a little sugar and tea; the demolition men got the sugar and tea, but did not care for marmalade, so Miss Anstruther got that. She did not know what else went into those bulging 15 dungaree pockets, and did not really care, for she knew it would not be the thing she sought, for which even demolition men would have no use; the flames, which take anything, useless or not, had taken these, taken them and destroyed them like a ravaging mouse or an idiot child. After a few days the police had stopped Miss Anstruther from climbing up to her flat any more, since the building was scheduled as dangerous. She did not much mind; she knew by then that what she looked for was gone for good. It was not among the massed debris on the basem*nt floor, where piles of burnt, soaked and blackened fragments had fallen through four floors to lie in indistinguishable anonymity together. The tenant of the basem*nt flat spent her days there, sorting and burrowing among the chaotic mass that had invaded her home from the dwellings of her co-tenants above. There were masses of paper, charred and black and damp, which had been books. Sometimes the basem*nt tenant would call out to Miss Anstruther, ‘Here’s a book. That’ll be yours, Miss Anstruther’; for it was believed in Mortimer House that most of the books contained in it were Miss Anstruther’s, Miss Anstruther being something of a bookworm. But none of the books were any use now, merely drifts of burnt pages. Most of the pages were loose and scattered about the rubbish-heaps; Miss Anstruther picked up one here and there and made out some words. ‘Yes,’ she would agree. ‘Yes, that was one of mine.’ The basem*nt tenant, digging bravely away for her motoring trophies, said, ‘Is it one you wrote?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ said Miss Anstruther. ‘I don’t think I can have …’ She did not really know what she might not have written, in that burnt-out past when she had sat and written this and that on the third floor, looking out on green gardens; but she did not think it could have been this. ‘Have you lost all your own?’ the basem*nt tenant asked, thinking about her motoring cups, and how she must get at them before the demolition men did, for they were silver. ‘Everything,’ Miss Anstruther answered. ‘Everything. They don’t matter.’ ‘I hope you had no precious manuscripts,’ said the kind tenant. ‘Books you were writing, and that.’ ‘Yes,’ said Miss Anstruther, digging about among the rubble heaps. ‘Oh yes. They’re gone. They don’t matter …’ © UCLES 2013

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The following passage, taken from a travel website, describes the writer’s sense of adventure and excitement during a visit to the Grand Canyon in Colorado, USA. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The same writer experiences another adventure and writes an account of it on the same website. Write the opening of the account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Scotty’s words are still echoing in my head: “Whatever happens, don’t go in the hole.” It is too late. We are in the hole. A towering wall of water engulfs the kayak and flips it around. Suddenly, we are pointing upstream and being sucked backwards. I glance around to discover my brother is no longer behind me. He has been washed out but has managed to grab the rope at the back. Somehow he hauls himself back in and we paddle like madmen, crashing through a series of huge waves to make it to calmer water.

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Scotty is waiting there, smiling and shaking his head. “I told you not to go in the 10 hole.” The rapid at mile marker 209 might only be a grade five on the Grand Canyon’s white-water rating system of 1 to 10, but I feel as though we have just paddled through Niagara Falls. I am not normally a high-five kinda guy but I can’t stop myself from shrieking and pumping my fists in an explosion of adrenalin and relief. It is 15 quite simply one of the most thrilling things I have ever done. Rafting through the Grand Canyon on the Colorado River has become one of those life-changing, must-do-before-you-die travel experiences. We pass an enjoyable afternoon horse riding and clay pigeon shooting before sitting down to a hearty dinner and some good ol’ fashioned country music from an 20 amusing band of slow-talking, Stetson-sporting1 locals. The next morning a helicopter threads its way between the canyon’s dramatic burnt-orange walls to deliver us to the rafts where Scotty and the other guides for the trip await our arrival. Guides can make or break this sort of trip and by all accounts Scotty is famous in these parts. He has done more than 200 trips through the canyon and with his long hair, beard and slightly maniacal pirate-style laugh, he 25 looks and sounds every inch the rafting legend. We pack our gear into waterproof bags and set off down the river in one of six, six-metre rafts. Only now, as we drift serenely downstream, do I finally comprehend the scale and majesty of this natural phenomenon. To lie back and be surrounded by 30 two billion years of scenery is indeed breathtaking and humbling. As the morning progresses, the temperature steadily climbs until it is well into the 30s. It is mid-June, and staying protected from the sun is of the highest concern. The water, on the other hand, barely fluctuates from a bracing 10 degrees all year round and the first time I get splashed I fail to stifle an embarrassingly high-pitched shriek. We set up camp for the night on a wide sandy beach and, while the guides prepare 35 a feast of barbecue chicken and pecan pie, we all settle down in camping chairs, crack open some wine and get better acquainted. © UCLES 2013

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7 There are enough tents for everyone, but most of us choose to sleep on cushioned mats underneath the stars. The guides go to bed at 9.30pm and after a lot of banter and several cases of wine, we are not far behind. There is no need for a torch to find 40 your way around – the moon bathes the beach in a ghostly half light and the sky is crammed with a riot of stars. There are sore heads when we are roused the following morning at 6 o’clock. To ease the pain there is hot coffee and a breakfast of eggs, bacon, pancakes and fresh fruit, all miraculously prepared in a makeshift kitchen in the middle of the wilderness. 45 We tackle three large rapids today and Scotty talks us through each one first. He can remember the nuances of every major rapid along the river, including the swirling vortex hole in rapid 209 that we are explicitly told to avoid. Between rapids we let the current carry us downstream while we marvel at the majestic scenery and wildlife. Falcons, eagles and osprey soar high above us while 50 big horn sheep negotiate impossibly steep slopes. For the first time we see boats from other operators: large, motorised ten-metre monsters that can carry fifteen people. The passengers all sit perched high on top and they look strangely detached and uninvolved as they power relentlessly 55 downstream. We enjoy one final evening of feasting, storytelling and stargazing on the river before we paddle towards Diamond Creek, where the rafts will be unloaded and we will be shuttled back out to civilisation. During those final few kilometres, the river narrows and we find ourselves hemmed in by a natural amphitheatre of towering rock. While we drift silently downstream, 60 one of the guides stands up and sings a slow, haunting rendition of Amazing Grace, her voice echoing off the canyon walls. It is a poignant end to a magical trip. 1

Stetson-sporting : wearing cowboy hats

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2 Answer two questions.

1

The following passage is an account of the writer’s first experience of work. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The same writer later finds a different kind of work and writes an account of his thoughts and feelings. Write the opening of the account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

My heart was full of excitement, when I received the call from the man called “Edge.” It had been nearly two weeks since I first met him face to face shortly after school had been let out for summer. He was a tiny man, short in stature but wide in girth. He stood nearly five feet tall and had a waddle to his walk and spoke in grunts. The 5 cap on his head had writing on it, but it was so dirty, I could not make out what it said. His thick German accent made it even more difficult to understand most of what he said. I was hoping that he did not notice how nervous I was, standing there in front of him in the greenhouse he built and owned. I am certain that my hands were wet with sweat when I shook his and thanked him for his time after meeting him and asking him for a job. My mother told me that you always should ask for the 10 job. The dirt in his own hands was so deep, none of it was left behind in my palm after shaking his firm small hand… “Are you ready to start?” he asked. “Well, sure,” I hesitated. I did not expect him to start me right away. My mother told me that folks usually have two interviews before they make a decision to hire you. “Follow me,” he told me, as I greeted him with my handshake at the small cash register counter of his store. “Put this on,” he said, handing me an apron. He also told me that on most days I worked, that he would expect that I would stay for four hours, which seemed like an awful long time to me. He told me that I would earn $1.64 per hour; not as much as I anticipated, but hell, it was my first job, I was sure I would get a raise as soon as he saw what a great worker I was. Besides that, at fourteen years old, I did not even know that there WAS a minimum wage, much less, whether or not I was being paid “under the table” 1. “Here you go,” he stated, standing in front of a black pile of steaming manure that was dumped into a pile next to a four foot by six foot box that was about three feet deep. It had a screen made from what looked like chicken wire pulled over four two by fours. “Shovel the manure onto the screen, sift it into the box. I’ll be in the back by the perennials 2 if you need me.” That was it. The excitement of my new career screeching to a halt. The stench emanating from the warm pile made me nauseous. I stood there for a few moments and watched “Edge” waddle away. I was holding the shovel in my hand, my heart racing, now for a different reason. Part of me wanted to put it down, walk through the greenhouse past the cash register and out of the front door, jump on my bike and ride home. Another part knew that I had to stay. What would my Mum and Dad say if I quit before I started? I had heard the stories that both of them had told about the hardships they endured as children, and sifting a little manure as a personal choice was nothing.

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And so, I started. Lifting the shovels full of manure onto the home-made sift seemed easy at first. I would lift about five scoops onto the sift, then shake it using all of the force of my body weight to shake the sift back and forth to cause the manure to fall through the tiny little squares of the chicken wire. Whatever was left, I would push through with my hands. After about forty-five minutes, I stopped being grossed out, 40 and had sifted four complete loads into the box. Now, however, I noticed another problem. Blisters. Both my hands now were blistered from lifting the shovels of © UCLES 2013

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3 manure onto the sieve. Tears welled in my eyes from the pain and frustration. Until I noticed the blisters, I did not feel any pain, but somehow looking at them caused me to feel the pulsating sting. I was supposed to work three more hours, and I did 45 not know how I was going to continue. Lifting the shovel even one more time would cause the blisters to rip off my hands. Then, I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Du need to use deeze” he said, handing me a pair of leather gloves. He scared me. Where did he come from, I thought, and why did I not hear him? “You must always use gloves when you work.” And then, he 50 waddled away into another part of the greenhouse. 1

“under the table” : in cash, avoiding tax

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perennials : long lasting garden plants

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4 2

The following passage comes from a short story set in World War Two. Miss Anstruther’s home has been destroyed by bombing. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Miss Anstruther later records her thoughts and feelings about that particular night in her diary. Write the opening of the diary entry (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Each night, as Miss Anstruther lay awake in her strange, littered, unhomely room, she lived again the blazing night that had cut her life in two. It had begun like other nights, with the wailing siren followed by the crashing guns, the rushing hiss of incendiaries over London, and the whining, howling pitching of bombs out of the sky onto the fire-lit city. A wild, blazing hell of a night. Miss Anstruther, whom bombs made restless, had gone down once or twice to the street door to look at the glowing furnace of London and exchange comments with the caretaker on the ground floor and with the two basem*nt tenants, then she had sat on the stairs, listening to the demon noise. Crashes shook Mortimer House, which was tall and slim and Edwardian,1 and swayed like a reed in the wind to near bombing. Miss Anstruther understood that this was a good sign, a sign that Mortimer House, unlike the characters ascribed to clients by fortune-tellers, would bend but not break. So she was quite surprised and shocked when, after a series of three close-at-hand screams and crashes, the fourth exploded, a giant earthquake, against Mortimer House, and sent its whole front crashing down. Miss Anstruther, dazed and bruised from the hurtle of bricks and plaster flung at her head, and choked with dust, hurried down the stairs, which were still there. The wall on the street was a pile of smoking, rumbling rubble, the Gothic respectability of Mortimer House one with Nineveh and Tyre 2 and with the little public 3 across the street. The ground-floor flats, the hall and the street outside, were scrambled and beaten into a common devastation of smashed masonry and dust. The little caretaker was tugging at his large wife, who was struck unconscious and jammed to the knees in bricks. The basem*nt tenant, who had rushed up with her stirrup pump, began to tug too, so did Miss Anstruther. Policemen pushed in through the mess, rescue men and a warden followed, all was in train for rescue, as Miss Anstruther had so often seen it in her ambulance-driving. ‘What about the flats above?’ they called. ‘Anyone in them?’ Only two of the flats above had been occupied, Miss Anstruther’s at the back. Mrs Cavendish’s at the front. The rescuers rushed upstairs to investigate the fate of Mrs Cavendish. ‘Why the devil,’ inquired the police, ‘wasn’t everyone downstairs?’ But the caretaker’s wife, who had been downstairs, was unconscious and jammed, while Miss Anstruther, who had been upstairs, was neither. They hauled out the caretaker’s wife, and carried her to a waiting ambulance. ‘Everyone out of the building!’ shouted the police. ‘Everyone out!’ Miss Anstruther asked why. The police said there were to be no bloody whys, everyone out, the bloody gas pipe’s burst and they’re throwing down fire, the whole thing may go up in a bonfire before you can turn round. A bonfire! Miss Anstruther thought, if that’s so I must go up and save some things. She rushed up the stairs, while the rescue men were in Mrs Cavendish’s flat. Inside her own blasted and twisted door, her flat lay waiting for death. God, muttered Miss Anstruther, what shall I save? She caught up a suitcase, and furiously piled books into it, then, as the suitcase would not shut, she turned out the largest volume and substituted a china cow, a tiny walnut shell with tiny Mexicans behind glass, a box with a mechanical bird that jumped out and sang, and a fountain pen. No use bothering with the big books or the pictures. Slinging the suitcase across her © UCLES 2013

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5 back, she caught up her portable wireless set and her typewriter, loped downstairs, placed her salvage on the piled wreckage at what had been the street door, and started up the stairs again. As she reached the first floor, there was a burst and a hissing, a huge pst-pst, and a rush of flame leaped over Mortimer House as the 50 burst gas caught and sprang to heaven, another fiery rose bursting into bloom to join that pandemonic red garden of night. Two rescue men, carrying Mrs Cavendish downstairs, met Miss Anstruther and pushed her back. 1

Edwardian : dating from the beginning of the twentieth century Nineveh and Tyre : ruined cities of the past 3 public : public house 2

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6 3

The following passage, taken from a blog on a travel website, describes the experience of a slow voyage on the Murray River in Australia. The writer sees himself as the ‘captain’ and his children as the ‘crew’. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The same writer decides to experience a different kind of journey and writes an account of it on the same website. Write the opening of the account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

What bright spark invented the fishfinder? Obviously not a person with children. If they did have children, they would know that the size of the fish the finder finds should be faithfully reproduced to scale on the small LED crystal screen. It would certainly save a lot of arguments on the River Murray. Small crewman: “Stop the houseboat!”

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“There’s a really big fish underneath us!” Nominal captain: “We can’t just STOP the houseboat. By the time we turn around the fish will be long gone. We’ll find a spot where we can stop and fish.” “Besides, I don’t think the fish was THAT big. It’s an electronic representation. Don’t take it so literally.” 10 Small crewman (five minutes later): “Stop the houseboat!!!” “There’s heaps of fish under us only 1.5m below. THOUSANDS of them!” Nominal captain: “It’s probably a log.” Small crewman: “NO! NO! Look at the screen! All the little images have little tails.” Nominal captain: “We can’t stop in the middle of the river. We have to find a safe 15 mooring. We can fish from there.” Small crewman (sulkily): “There probably won’t be any fish there…” He was right. Like endless rows of animated Space Invaders, clouds of large and small fish images regularly crossed the small screen as our houseboat made its way upriver 20 from Blanchetown towards Morgan, in South Australia. Carp and young boys have a symbiotic relationship. On a good day, the fish virtually throw themselves on the hook, and the boys throw all their efforts into catching them. Pelicans are also part of this food chain. With round, wise eyes, they patiently wait. When the fish hauled up from the depths of the Murray is small, the boys must eat 25 their pride. But the pelicans get to eat the carp. Casting longer distances became a challenge amongst the boys — one which cost the nine-year-old his fishing rod. © UCLES 2013

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7 The shock of the impact of lead on head from a wildly swinging sinker not only caused a large lump but ended with the rod in the river. 30 After that, it was hand-line fishing. Cruising into the glittering path of a shaft of morning sunshine, with the smell of bacon and eggs cooking on the barbecue, it’s easy to see why people choose to live on the river. Life is visibly slower. Squadrons of swallows skim low over the water ahead of the bow. An occasional 35 pelican, looking like an overloaded seaplane, cruises in for a precarious landing. The riverine sunshine loosens the chilly grip of early morning as the houseboat meanders upriver, past the mouth of Cumbunga Creek, Roonka Conservation Park and Reedy Island, to moor for the night on a sandy bank at Glenforslan. As sunset turns the clouds orange, then plum red, raucous flocks of white co*ckatoos 40 roosting in the river red gums quieten their chaos in the fading light. The trees are like ghostly black cut-outs on the evening sky. It’s a uniquely Australian experience. Cruising upriver on a houseboat with a large kitchen/living area is something like living in a glass-walled lounge room. The landscape slips by. Holidaymakers and river folk sitting around a breakfast campfire wave from the bank. On the river, travellers 45 don’t just pass through the scene. Like an animated Hans Heysen painting, they are a living part of it. The next morning, hidden kookaburras1 laugh at our fishing efforts as the houseboat passes Donald Flat lagoon. Two kilometres upriver lies the ruins of the Woods Flat post office, opened in 1901 and closed in 1971. 50 Past clifftop homes commanding magnificent views of the river, caravans and huddles of simple holiday homes, and occasionally, sprawling riverside residences — contemporary mansions in all but name. Mooring for a night opposite Donald Flat Lagoon, hordes of white co*ckatoos 55 screeched goodnight. And goodnight. And goodnight. Then, as if on cue…silence. As the boys eat breakfast, a pair of hawk-like whistling kites ride the air above the river red gums, carefully eyeing the water to catch their own. On the broad expanse of Brenda Reach, 10km downriver from Morgan, the world awakens with blushes of pink on the clouds as the glow of first light paints muted 60 orange brushstrokes on the sandstone cliffs. Kookaburras trade jokes in the distance and magpies warble as the water’s mirror-surface is broken by the spreading ripples of surfacing fish. It’s another day on the Murray. 1

kookaburras: Australian birds with a laughing cry

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2 Answer two questions.

1

The following passage is an account of the writer’s first experience of work. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The same writer later finds another kind of work and writes an account of her thoughts and feelings. Write the opening of the account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

I had experienced a rather unceremonious exit from school.

Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

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3

Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

sensual woman who indulged in whatever she wanted. 1

palazzo: a grand house in Italy

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Sophia Loren: Italian film star

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Vogue: a leading fashion magazine

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Anita Ekberg: Scandinavian film star

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4 2

The following passage comes from a short story set in World War Two. Miss Anstruther’s home has been destroyed by bombing. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Later, Miss Anstruther records her thoughts and feelings about the loss of her home in a letter to a friend. Write the opening of the letter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

She cried, ‘I must go up again. I must get something out. There’s time.’ ‘Not a bloody second,’ one of them shouted at her, and pushed her back. She fought him. ‘Let me go, oh let me go. I tell you I’m going up once more.’ On the landing above, a wall of flame leaped crackling to the ceiling. ‘Go up be damned. Want to go through that?’ They pulled her down with them to the ground floor. She ran out into the street, shouting for a ladder. Oh God, where are the fire engines? A hundred fires, the water given out in some places, engines helpless. Everywhere buildings burning, museums, churches, hospitals, great shops, houses, blocks of flats, north, south, east, west and centre. Such a raid never was. Miss Anstruther heeded none of it; with hell blazing and crashing round her, all she thought was, I must get my letters. Oh dear God, my letters. She pushed again into the inferno, but again she was dragged back. ‘No one to go in there,’ said the police, for all human life was by now extricated. No one to go in, and Miss Anstruther’s flat left to be consumed in the spreading storm of the fire, which was to leave no wrack behind. Everything was doomed – furniture, books, pictures, china, clothes, manuscripts, silver, everything: all she thought of was the desk crammed with letters that should have been the first thing she saved. What had she saved instead? Her wireless, her typewriter, a suitcase full of books; looking round, she saw that all three had gone from where she had put them down. Perhaps they were in the safe keeping of the police, more likely in the wholly unsafe keeping of some rescue-squad man or private looter. Miss Anstruther cared little. She sat down on the wreckage of the road, sick and shaking, wholly bereft. The bombers departed, their job well done. Dawn came, dim and ashy, in a pall of smoke. The little burial garden was like a garden in a Vesuvian village1, grey in its ash coat. The air choked with fine drifts of cinders. Mortimer House still burned, for no one had put it out. A grimy warden with a note-book asked Miss Anstruther, have you anywhere to go? ‘No,’ she said, ‘I shall stay here.’ ‘Better go to a rest centre,’ said the warden, wearily doing his job, not caring where anyone went, wondering what had happened in North Ealing, where he lived. Miss Anstruther stayed, watching the red ruin smouldering low. Sometime, she thought, it will be cool enough to go into. There followed the haunted, desperate days of search which found nothing. Since silver and furniture had been wholly consumed, what hope for letters? There was no charred sliver of the old locked rosewood desk which had held them. The burning words were burnt, the lines, running small and close and neat down the page, difficult to decipher, with the o’s and a’s never closed at the top, had run into a flaming void and would never be deciphered more. Miss Anstruther tried to recall them, as she sat in the alien room; shutting her eyes, she tried to see again the phrases that, once you had made them out, lit the page like stars. There had been many hundreds of letters, spread over twenty-two years. Last year their writer had died; the letters were all that Miss Anstruther had left of him; she had not yet re-read them; she had been waiting till she could do so without the devastation of unendurable weeping. They had lain there, a solace waiting for her when she could take it. Had she taken it, she could have recalled them better now. As it was, her memory held disjointed © UCLES 2013

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5 phrases, could not piece them together. Light of my eyes. You are the sun and the moon and the stars to me. When I think of you life becomes music, poetry, beauty, and I am more than myself. It is what lovers have found in all the ages, and no one has ever found before. The sun flickering through the trees on your hair. And so on. 50 As each phrase came back to her, it jabbed at her heart like a twisting bayonet. 1

Vesuvian village: a village devastated by a volcano

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6 3

The following newspaper article describes the experiences of journalists in a war-torn area. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same journalist arrives at another destination which is affected by matters beyond her control. She writes an article about this new location. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

The call sometimes comes in the middle of the night. Pack your bags, you are being deported. Or: we would like to discuss an error in your story – now. Or even: we have news about your visa inquiry. One evening, a list of 25 names was posted in the hotel lobby. The following journalists will be leaving tomorrow. No reason, no discernible pattern. The next morning, all were reprieved. Bags were unpacked, travel arrangements unpicked.

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This is part of life as a foreign journalist under virtual house arrest at the five-star hotel where maddening soft pop plays on an endless loop, portraits of the Brother Leader hang in the lobby, and armed men stand guard on the gate to prevent reporters slipping out. It is a world of rumour, paranoia, mistrust, manipulation, 10 frustration and interrupted sleep. North Korea with palm trees was how one of our number described it. But we are forbidden from leaving the hotel without a minder. The BBC and al-Jazeera websites cannot be accessed, although their TV channels are available. One minder favours long, intense conversations with journalists about the virtues 15 and magnanimity of “the Guide”, aka the Leader. Everywhere we go on governmentorganised trips “spontaneous” demonstrations of ardent loyalists erupt. How long have you been here, when are you leaving and what’s happening are the most common questions we ask one another. There is no routine or pattern to the days. Ask a minder if an organised trip is likely to depart, and he will shrug and say: 20 “Maybe.” Hours can slip by waiting for something that never materialises. The camaraderie among the foreign press corps is occasionally punctuated by small explosions of frustration and competition. “I’ve been doing this job for twenty years,” a reporter yelled at a cameraman in a scrum the other night. “It doesn’t show,” came the instant putdown. 25 The mutual support between journalists came perilously close to collapse last week when the government minders said they would take a small number on a trip to a city in the west that has seen sustained fighting for several weeks. An unseemly scramble to get a place on one of the two minibuses ensued. Reporters and TV teams pleaded to be included; some tried to force their way past the minders on 30 the bus doors, others clambered through the vehicles’ windows. Yet, in a spirit of solidarity, those left behind thrust flak jackets through the windows for colleagues without body armour as the buses moved off. The following day, another trip to the city was laid on. It was a ten-hour round journey during which we saw precisely nothing apart from a few columns of black smoke in 35 the distance. The minders decided to take a long detour on the way back, citing danger on the main highway. We got back to the hotel after midnight – at which point a press conference was announced.

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7 Late-night press briefings are a feature of life here. This week, one began at 1.30am. A TV cameraman filmed the event in his hotel bathrobe. Another night, I had just 40 got into bed hoping for an early night when the familiar ding-dong of the public address system disturbed the peace of my room. “Good evening everyone,” the announcements usually begin. “To all journalists: there will be a press conference in ten minutes/half an hour/an hour/now.” We are never told the subject or the speaker, and they never start on time. 45 Government officials regularly berate us for our lack of professionalism, objectivity, accuracy. To be lectured on journalistic ethics when we are not allowed to move around freely or talk to unauthorised citizens is rich in irony… Rumours and speculation abound. One journalist refused to eat hot food during his stay, believing it was spiked with sedatives. Others nurse suspicions about how 50 the minders manage to stay awake virtually round the clock. Is there a team in the basem*nt listening to our phone calls and monitoring our emails? Is it possible to escape through the kitchen? Are the waiting and cleaning staff spies? Why do some people’s computers suddenly lose internet connection when others remain online? Who is that guy who keeps photographing us at press conferences? Why have 55 scores of hideous paintings been hung on the hotel walls in the past few days? Mindful of the tightened budgets of their news organisations, many journalists try to contain their soaring hotel bills by skipping meals. One who regularly dined on cream crackers and peanut butter in his room found, upon checkout, that the hotel had charged him for lunch and dinner every day, regardless. After fifteen minutes of 60 fruitless argument, he gave up and paid. At the hotel, it’s easy to lose the will to fight back.

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

1

The following text is taken from a newspaper article offering a guide for new visitors to the city of Rio de Janeiro in Brazil. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to portray the city.

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(b) The same newspaper publishes another article which offers a similar guide for new visitors to a popular tourist location in your country. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this article. Base your answer closely on the features of the writing in the original extract. [10]

RIO DE JANEIRO – “Brazil is not for beginners,” the late, great Brazilian composer Tom Jobim once quipped. Nowhere does the remark hold more true than for the country’s pulsing, chaotic oceanfront metropolis, Rio de Janeiro. This is a city of contrasts, where vastly different worlds rub shoulders, and the unexpected lies lurking around every corner.

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Hang a right during an aimless stroll through the chic beach-side neighborhoods of Ipanema or Copacabana and you might just bump into a lush tropical forest. Hang a left, and the luxury condominiums1 could give way to a warren of brick and corrugated iron houses perched precariously on a rocky outcropping – a “favela,” or hillside slum. 10 It’s this proximity between rich and poor, city and nature, that gives Rio its intensity. But it also makes navigation a challenge for first-time visitors. Luckily, Rio is dotted with landmarks that allow you to easily find your bearings. Sugarloaf Hill, the awesome rocky outcropping that can be visited by aerial cable car, presides over Guanabara Bay in the east. The monumental statue, Christ the 15 Redeemer, reaches toward the sea from his perch inside the dense Tijuca Forest in the heart of the city. A five-mile stretch of white sand marks Rio’s southern edge, home to the legendary Copacabana, Ipanema and Leblon beaches. Here, the beach is a way of life, and these iconic stretches of sand are the stage upon which Rio natives play out their lives. Weekends draw huge crowds from across the class spectrum to swim, surf, sun, jog, picnic, gossip, frolic, flirt, stretch and strut.

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During the Southern Hemisphere summer, January to March, the throngs are often so thick that towel-size beach space can be hard to come by. But persevere. Between the tall, tanned, young and lovely girls from Ipanema, their muscle-bound, tattoo-covered male counterparts, the flocks of screaming children and steady stream of vendors selling everything from sunscreen to frozen slush made from Amazon berries, the action is not to be missed. No trip to the beach is complete without a stroll down Avenida Visconde de Piraja, Ipanema’s main drag2, where the dress code consists of bikinis, sarongs and flipflops. Homegrown clothing lines abound, churning out pretty but pricey sundresses, short-shorts, pantsuits for the daring and, naturally, bikinis. Top Brazilian beachwear houses include Lenny, Salinas and Osklen. © UCLES 2014

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3 If you haven’t gotten your fill of snacks on the beach, head to Bibi Sucos, which serves up a dizzying array of freshly squeezed exotic juices – jabuticaba,3 anyone? 35 – and, with Brazil’s dizzily spiraling prices, is among Rio’s few remaining inexpensive pleasures. A more sophisticated meal can be had at Market, also on Visconde de Piraja, which serves up tasty, healthy alternatives to the “comida por quilo” selfservice buffets that offer up meat in all its imaginable incarnations, paid for by the 40 weight. If you’re a Brazilian at heart, with a well-developed carnivorous instinct, no trip to Rio is complete without a visit to a “rodizio,” a fixed-price restaurant where an endless variety of meats, from filet mignon to chicken hearts, are served off the spit by a parade of waiters. Porcao, which has three Rio locations including one in Ipanema, 45 is a “rodizio” of epic proportions. To work off the meat overdose, a hike doubtless will be in order, and Rio offers several excellent options. The world’s largest urban forest, Tijuca is home to a host of monkeys, parrots and cute raccoon-like creatures called coatis (“cuatis” in Portuguese) as well as the Christ statue, perched atop a verdant, 2,300-foot peak. You could take the “bondinho,” or 50 little streetcar, that winds its way to the top. But if you really want to burn off those extra calories, a better option is a hike to the top of the Tijuca Peak, which is a full 1,000 feet higher and offers unparalleled panoramic views over the city. Get an early start, because the park closes at 55 sundown, and the hike can take up to six hours for a round trip. For a stiff dose of Rio night life, hit Lapa. Bars serving up Brazilian cane alcohol, “cachaca,” tiny clubs with live music and massive, multilevel mega-discos are all concentrated in this historic neighborhood near the city center. Friday nights this is where the action is, and the crowds are so thick you can barely walk – let alone 60 dance. 1

condominiums : apartments drag : street 3 jabuticaba : a purple grape used for producing fruit drinks 2

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4 2

The following text is taken from an autobiographical account written by a passenger who was on board the ship Titanic when it hit an iceberg in 1912. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to portray the writer’s thoughts and feelings. [15] (b) Continue the account (between 120–150 words). You do not have to bring the account to a close. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

Suddenly a queer quivering ran under me, apparently the whole length of the ship. Startled by the very strangeness of the shivering motion, I sprang to the floor. With too perfect a trust in that mighty vessel I again lay down. No confusion, no noise of any kind, one could believe no danger imminent. 5 Our stewardess came and said she could learn nothing. Looking out into the companionway I saw heads appearing asking questions from half-closed doors. All still, no excitement. I sat down again. My friend was by this time dressed; still her daughter and I talked on, Margaret pretending to eat a sandwich. Her hand shook so that the bread kept parting company from the chicken. Then I saw she was frightened, and for the first time I was too, but why get dressed, as no one 10 had given the slightest hint of any possible danger? An officer’s cap passed the door. I asked: ‘Is there an accident or danger of any kind?’ ‘None, so far as I know’, was his courteous answer, spoken quietly and most kindly. This same officer then entered a cabin a little distance down the companionway and, by this time distrustful of everything, I listened intently, and distinctly heard, ‘We can keep the water out for 15 a while.’ Then, and not until then, did I realize the horror of an accident at sea. Now it was too late to dress; slippers were quicker than shoes; the stewardess put on our life-preservers, and we were just ready when Mr Roebling came to tell us he would take us to our friend’s mother, who was waiting above. No laughing throng, but on either side [of the staircases] stand quietly, bravely, the stewards, all equipped with the white, ghostly life-preservers. Always the thing one tries not to see even crossing a ferry. Now only pale faces, each form strapped about with those white bars. So gruesome a scene. We passed on. The awful good-byes. The quiet look of hope in the brave men’s eyes as the wives were put into the lifeboats. Nothing escaped one at this fearful moment. We left from the sun deck, seventy-five feet above the water. Mr Case and Mr Roebling, brave men, saw us to the lifeboat, made no effort to save themselves, but stepped back on deck. Our lifeboat, with thirty-six in it, began lowering to the sea. This was done amid the greatest confusion. Rough seamen all giving different orders. No officer aboard. As only one side of the ropes worked, the lifeboat at one time was in such a position that it seemed we must capsize in mid-air. At last the ropes worked together, and we drew nearer and nearer the black, oily water. The first touch of our lifeboat on that black sea came to me as a last good-bye to life, and so we put off – a tiny boat on a great sea – rowed away from what had been a safe home for five days.

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The first wish on the part of all was to stay near the Titanic. We all felt so much safer near the ship. Surely such a vessel could not sink. I thought the danger must be exaggerated, and we could all be taken aboard again. But surely the outline of that great, good ship was growing less. The bow of the boat was getting black. Light after light was disappearing, and now those rough seamen put to their oars and we 40 were told to hunt under seats, any place, anywhere, for a lantern, a light of any kind. Every place was empty. There was no water – no stimulant of any kind. Not a biscuit © UCLES 2014

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5 – nothing to keep us alive had we drifted long. The life-preservers helped to keep us warm, but the night was bitter cold, and it grew colder and colder, and just before dawn, the coldest, darkest hour of all, no help seemed possible…

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The stars slowly disappeared, and in their place came the faint pink glow of another day. Then I heard, ‘A light, a ship.’ I could not, would not, look while there was a bit of doubt, but kept my eyes away. All night long I had heard, ‘A light!’ Each time it proved to be one of our other lifeboats, someone lighting a piece of paper, anything they could find to burn, and now I could not believe. Someone found a newspaper; it was 50 lighted and held up. Then I looked and saw a ship. A ship bright with lights; strong and steady she waited, and we were to be saved. A straw hat was offered: it would burn longer. That same ship that had come to save us might run us down. But no; she is still. The two, the ship and the dawn, came together, a living painting.

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6 3

The following text is a review of a rather unusual restaurant and its owner. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to present the owner and her surroundings. [15] (b) The television company decides to advertise the new television series presented by Rachel Khoo. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the text for the advertisem*nt (between 120–150 words). [10]

The surprise is not that Rachel Khoo cooks well, which she does. The surprise is that she does it at all. You see, Khoo operates several flights up within a rather shabby-chic block, in a flat that is weeny.1 In total, it is 22 square metres in size. That’s about as big as a double bedroom. Entering it feels like arriving in a treehouse. There’s a tiny little hall, a titchy bathroom and a diminutive living room, where she sleeps. And there’s a little kitchen. Rachel’s little kitchen. This is her definition, indeed, it’s the title of her book and accompanying TV show, which is in the process of being filmed when I visit. “Hello!” she cries. Only I can’t see her. The figure of the director and the cameraman are enough to entirely obscure Rachel in her bedroom cupboard, sorry kitchen. In all, there are five of us in the flat, and it is chocka.2 All I can see is a vintage-looking colander hanging on the wall. And a pair of feet in socks. These belong to Rachel, who is standing in her kitchen rolling out dough and explaining that when you do this, it’s best to sandwich it within baking paper, so it doesn’t stick. It’s also good because it means you don’t have to cover your worktop with flour, which then gets everything all messy. You have to be neat when you work in a kitchen the size of a doormat. “You have to think twice about what you buy, too,” she tells me later, over hot chocolate at Cherie, her favourite café down the road in the newly fashionable 13th district, near the station. “You have to really think about what you need.”

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She’s not complaining. Khoo, 31, is quite petite herself. Equally fortunately, she appears to have brutal drive. This is essential. Right now, the world of the television chef is, frankly, as full as a bowl of classic Italian minestrone soup. Except with giant egos instead of macaroni bobbing about in it. To make it big in the world of the televised smile hovering over the expertly kneaded 25 short-crust pastry, to become famous on Planet TV Chef, you have not only to have talent, but you also need nuclear-powered self-belief, and you must have a gimmick. This is crucial, as it will set you apart from all those other TV chefs who have their gimmicks, too – easy, sexy, fishy, French, foul-mouthed, and, er, very foul-mouthed. We know them so well, they exist simply under these totems.3 Rachel will have to have her own niche, in order to compete. A microscopic kitchen, which is, of course, a niche in its own right, will do perfectly. Khoo, who trained as a cordon bleu chef when she got fed up working as a food stylist, has all of the above. She has talent. The gimmick is the tiny kitchen. And she has self-belief. Gallons of it. If you measured it, it would probably be larger than her flat, actually. Then she found a cookshop with a café attached. She talked her way in as the © UCLES 2014

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7 resident pastry chef, launching sessions like ‘Pimp My Cupcake’ for elegant ladies who were curious to know more. She then got 30 minutes of pitch-time at Penguin Books. She marched into the commissioning editor’s office and sold My Little Kitchen. Does she have a life outside patisserie? It doesn’t look like there is room for much else. She will probably be a giant success, and be known on first name terms before the year is out; she looks like Juliette Lewis, for a start, she is winningly down to earth (“If your quiche Lorraine 4 has anything other than bacon, eggs and cream in it, it is not a quiche Lorraine,” I hear her telling the camera), and she is the real deal. She cooks in a tiny flat, rather well. “Oh, you don’t need a giant kitchen,” she breezes. Her first kitchen didn’t even have an oven. Or a fridge. What’s the bare minimum, then? “A hob. Running water. Some pots, and chef’s knives. And a windowsill.” What, for growing herbs? “No, for the fridge.” Wouldn’t she love to have a giant kitchen with an island, a big oven and a breadmaker? “No. I like small. It’s why I like living here – it still feels quite small.” She goes to the local market twice a week and simply cooks what’s in season; she has a butcher and a baker and is a self-confessed croissant snob. She doesn’t buy what she doesn’t need and she lives frugally, largely because her life has to be utterly minimalist, like her quiches. After all, it can be summarised by the contents of a single cupboard, a rather rickety shelving unit, and a tiny kitchen. She’s arrived at the right time, I think. 1

weeny : tiny chocka : full to bursting 3 totems : symbolic labels 4 quiche Lorraine : French savoury dish 2

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following text is taken from a website advertising a holiday location. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to promote the island and its benefits. [15] (b) The designers of the same website are invited to write a similar promotion for another holiday destination and its benefits to potential visitors. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this promotion. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the writing in the original extract. [10]

In the azure waters of the Indian Ocean there is an island like no other on earth. An island where nature thrives and man is just a silent observer, curator of one of the most pristine islands on earth. Cousine Island is one of the 115 islands that make up the Seychelles: the perfect destination for travellers seeking an escape from the crowds, but where luxury and service are never compromised. Cousine Island can only be reached by helicopter and it is this seclusion that makes it such an attractive haven for people wanting absolute privacy. Cousine Island offers you the opportunity to not only visit a private island but to experience a sense of ownership. The Island offers privacy found in very few places on earth!

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From arrival to departure and beyond, you are a part of the Cousine Family – we offer warm hospitality which is unobtrusive and encourages a true ‘home away from home’ feeling. Birds and tortoises welcome you, the song of the Magpie Robin enchants you and the ever curious skinks1 sit quietly awaiting a crumb to fall from your table… Private, unique and intimate weddings are offered on Cousine Island! Where would you find the most romantic beach wedding location to tie the knot? For the ultimate beach wedding, you won’t have to look further than Cousine Island. You cannot afford not to investigate Seychelles beach weddings; the exquisite setting is the perfect ingredient for a happy day, and with our temperate climate, choosing Cousine Island for this milestone will be one of the wisest choices you make. Most newlyweds long for some seclusion, but they also want comfort and luxury and this is what Cousine Island is all about. For Seychelles beach weddings, the best time to come and tie the knot is from October to February, because you have the promise of lazy, hazy days; calm, serene seas and gentle breezes.

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Save yourself a great deal of stress. Let us plan everything for you – from your dress, to the flowers, to the music and wedding feast. There are all sorts of different ways you can celebrate your beach wedding, anything from barefoot and tropical to something more formal. The pressure is on for you to create an experience that is truly unforgettable, and it can be hard to know where to begin, but with Seychelles beach weddings we arrange everything and plan a day that you will never forget, and you will be totally relaxed and rejuvenated from having us arrange every tiny detail. © UCLES 2014

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3 Come to the ‘islands of love’ – Seychelles beach weddings and honeymoons are the perfect way to start your journey together and to return again to celebrate all the important stages of your marriage. The powder-white beach overlooking the turquoise blue water with palm trees swaying gently in the mid-afternoon breeze offers the perfect setting to celebrate your perfect wedding. Whether it is a grand affair with pastor and choir or barefoot on the beach, your wedding is sure to be remembered forever!

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A perfect day rounded off by a romantic beach barbecue with a bonfire and a starlit sky… or a feast in the pavilion with family and friends. Your honeymoon – a time to relax after the wedding. Kick off your shoes, settle under a palm tree and read your favourite book or let our spa therapist work away at the stress and tension left over from your wedding. Relax and unwind in our rustic spa which is located at the old Beach House. Our spa features the exclusive Ligne St Barth product range which is a very luxurious and all-natural skincare range. You will be taken on a sensory journey that will leave you tingling with delight from head to toe. Enjoy our home-made ginger and peppermint tea on the verandah overlooking the ocean. We make sure that your time spent here with us will be enjoyed to the full.

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Come and experience true paradise without having to deal with crowds of people! 1

skink : type of lizard

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4 2

The following text is taken from an account of the moments when the ship Titanic hit an iceberg in 1912. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to create the atmosphere of the scene. [15] (b) Continue the account (between 120–150 words). You do not have to bring the account to a close. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

High in the crow’s-nest of the new White Star liner, Titanic lookout Frederick Fleet peered into a dazzling night. It was calm, clear and bitterly cold. There was no moon, but the cloudless sky blazed with stars. The Atlantic was like polished plate glass. People later said they had never seen it so smooth. So far so good. On duty at ten o’clock… a few words about the ice problem with lookout Reginald Lee who shared the same watch… a few more words about the cold… but mostly just silence as the two men stared into the darkness. Now the watch was almost over, and still there was nothing unusual. Just the night, the stars, the biting cold, the wind that rushed through the rigging as the Titanic raced across the calm, black sea at 22.5 knots. It was almost 11.40pm on Sunday, 14th April 1912. Suddenly Fleet saw something directly ahead even darker than the darkness. At first it was small (about the size, he thought, of two tables put together) but every second it grew larger and closer. Quickly, Fleet banged the crow’s-nest bell three times, the warning of danger ahead. At the same time he lifted the phone and rang the bridge.1

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‘What did you see?’ asked a calm voice at the other end. ‘Iceberg right ahead,’ replied Fleet. ‘Thank you,’ acknowledged the voice with curiously detached courtesy. Nothing more said. For the next thirty-seven seconds Fleet and Lee stood quietly side by side watching 20 the ice draw nearer. Now they were almost on top of it, and still the ship didn’t turn. The berg towered wet and glistening far above the forecastle deck, and both men braced themselves for a crash. Then miraculously, the bow began to swing to port. At the last second the stern shot into the clear and the ice glided swiftly by along the starboard side. It looked to Fleet like a close shave. 25 At this moment Quartermaster George Rowe was standing watch on the after bridge. For him too, it had been an uneventful night – just the sea, the stars, the biting cold. As he paced the deck, he noticed what he and his mates called ‘whiskers round the light’ – tiny splinters of ice in the air, fine as dust, that gave off myriads of bright colours whenever caught in the glow of the deck lights.

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Then suddenly he felt a curious motion break the steady rhythm of the engines. It was a little like coming alongside a dock wall rather heavily. He glanced forward – and stared again. A windjammer,2 sails set, seemed to be passing the starboard side. Then he realized it was an iceberg, towering perhaps a hundred feet above the water. The next instant it was gone, drifting astern into the dark.

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On this quiet, cold Sunday night a snug bunk seemed about the best place to be. © UCLES 2014

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5 But a few shipboard diehards were still up. As usual most were in the first-class smoking-room on A deck. Somebody produced a deck of cards, and as they sat playing and laughing, suddenly came that grinding jar. Not much of a shock but enough to give a man a start. In an instant… through the aft3 door… past the Palm Court… and out on to the deck. They were just in time to see the iceberg scraping along the starboard side, a little higher than the boat deck. As it slid by, they watched chunks of ice breaking off and tumbling into the water. In another moment it faded into the darkness astern. The creaking woodwork, the distant rhythm of the engines, the steady rattle of the glass dome over the A deck foyer – all the familiar shipboard sounds vanished as the Titanic came to a stop. Far more than any jolt, silence stirred the passengers. On deck there was little fun to be seen; nor was there any sign of danger. For the most part the explorers wandered aimlessly about or stood by the rail, staring into the empty night for some clue to the trouble. The Titanic lay dead in the water, three of her four huge funnels blowing off steam with a roar that shattered the quiet, starlit night. Otherwise everything was normal. Towards the stern of the boat an elderly couple strolled arm in arm, oblivious of the roaring steam and the little knots of passengers roving about. It was so bitterly cold and there was so little to be seen, that most of the people came inside again. Mingling together, they made a curious picture. Their dress was an odd mixture of bathrobes, evening clothes, fur coats, turtle-neck sweaters. The setting was equally incongruous – the huge glass dome overhead… the dignified oak panelling… the magnificent balustrades with their wrought-iron scrollwork… and looking down on them all, an incredible wall clock adorned with two bronze nymphs, somehow symbolizing Honour and Glory crowning Time.

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bridge: a ship’s control centre windjammer : large, old-fashioned sailing ship 3 aft : rear 2

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6 3

The following text is taken from an autobiographical account of growing up. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to convey the writer’s thoughts and feelings. [15] (b) Later, the friend records her thoughts and feelings about the writer and the journey in her diary. Write a section of the diary entry (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Since I’m still in my senior year of high school none of my memories are too far in the past… To say the least I’ve a bad case of senioritis1 but am fighting well. Anyhow, this seemed to be a pretty profound morning for me about a week ago… The morning commute is, unfortunately, the same as it’s always been. The same grueling forty-five minutes of persistent chatter and the consuming static of a radio that’s permanently stuck on “too loud”. My only salvation is a single friend, the only soul on this forsaken mass-transit with a shred of dignity and intelligence – and I shouldn’t just say a shred, she’s practically brimming with it.

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As I fold myself into the cracked faux leather seat, my knees press into the bench in front of me and I note, not for the first time, that I’m much too tall for this. In an ineffective effort to escape the monsters around us, we both slide into the confines of the seat and bunker down for the daily ritual. It begins as per usual, we simultaneously contribute to an awkward silence then share common trivialities, like we’re meeting for the first time, or passing shopping-carts in the grocery store.

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After surveying the oblivious newcomers, I groan and break the silence, “They make me feel so old, you know?” I say, nodding my chin toward the junior high students clustered in the front six seats. She laughs in agreement and compliments my ponytail, comments on my barrette2. She has a tendency to do that on days like this; it’s like she can sense when I’m feeling down on myself. It typically makes me feel a 20 bit better. I try and do the same for her, but I’m a terrible judge of facial expression. Some idiot in the back just decided to go and open a window, even though the dead admit it’s cold outside. Some kids yell that it is only –2° and to shut the window, but I just pull my khaki wool jacket tighter across my chest and kick off my gray flats so I can tuck my feet beneath me and keep my toes warm. My confidant does the same and zips up her black windbreaker, there’s a moment of rustling that follows from her arms swishing across her torso while she rearranges her numerous bags. I shiver and we exchange a meaningful look that says simply “why?” because we both know the window will end up open all week. I look again at her and her mountain of clutter and think, she’ll be a crazy bag lady someday… The thought makes me smile since I’m sure she knows it too and I idly play with the impossible lock ties of my own vintage blue messenger bag. It’s at this time that I really notice how ravenous I am. I pull a small container of leftovers out of my bag to munch at as we converse and bump along. “Do you remember feeling six?” she asks while drawing on the frost-covered plexi-glass. For a moment I have to stop chewing and seriously think. Images, hard to conjure, dimly flash; the salty taste of play-dough, the smell of summer and other various events that I would not care to dwell on. “No.” I finally answer, “I remember some things from being six, but the feeling escapes me entirely.” And it truly did, I just felt well… cold, a little old and just plain hungry. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t bring back that feeling of uninhibited innocence that currently belongs to my little sister. © UCLES 2014

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7 While we talked, complained and generally gossiped, the thought lingered in the back of my mind: just why was it so terrifically difficult to return to a long forgotten mindset? It frustrated me terribly that I could remember everything that happened, but it was like watching somebody else. In some weird way I felt as though I was intruding on someone else’s experiences, trying to unravel some alter me’s emotions and motivations. The vehicle stops and I’m returned, full force, to the present. The school gossip is climbing the stairs and I lean over and whisper, “It’s too early for this.” Shamefully we both plug our ears with headphones and miserably feign sleep. It’s all for nothing though since, Mouth, as we’ll call her, plops into the seat next to us and pulls the headphones out to talk. For the next fifteen minutes my savior and I exchange casual “help me” glances as we get a month’s worth of gossip at 30MPH, and once again Mouth’s life story that either of us could repeat word for word. 1

senioritis : decreased motivation toward studies displayed by students who are nearing the end of their school life 2 barrette : a clasp or pin for holding hair in place

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following text is taken from an online advertisem*nt for a luxury apartment called Pembroke in Cape Town, South Africa.

(a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to promote the accommodation and its location. [15]

(b) The same company posts a similar online advertisem*nt for a different luxury apartment they run in your own part of the world.

Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this advertisem*nt. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

Set on the water’s edge in the heart of Cape Town’s acclaimed waterfront, Pembroke is the quintessence of luxury serviced accommodation for either business or holiday, rubbing shoulders with two of the world’s leading hotels, The One and Only, and Cape Grace. Within walking distance of a myriad of bistros, gourmet restaurants, popular and designer shopping, and an internationally renowned aquarium, Pembroke is an oasis to which you can retreat after sampling the city’s busy delights. Perched above the marina, relax and enjoy a languid drink at sunset, looking out over the water, or contemplate the majesty of Table Mountain after an invigorating day out and about.

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When only the very best will do for your Cape Town trip, why look any further? Retail food outlets and fine dining establishments are within walking distance. For a special occasion, enlist a private chef for that indulgent gourmet meal. We can arrange tours of the Winelands, as well as trips to experience the exceptional regional flora and fauna (e.g. botanical gardens or whale-spotting). The Cape is also 15 a hotspot for golf with many nearby courses. We will gladly organise airport transfers as well as assist with vehicle hire during your stay. This luxury serviced apartment’s bedroom suite, which comes with a plush extra length king bed and luxury linen, commands superb views across the marina to Cape Town’s waterfront and the ocean beyond. There is an open-plan dressing room and en suite bathroom with separate wet room and power shower, a regal double bath enjoying views over the harbour, twin basins and bidet.

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The bed is an extra length king-size, dressed with the finest linens with which to enjoy your marina bedroom choice of TV, film or music from the flat-screen TV and the surround-sound speakers’ link to the apartment’s integrated audiovisual system, enhanced by mood lighting to orchestrate the ambience of the moment and all by remote control.

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The suite enjoys vistas of Table Mountain and the cableway, Signal Hill and the Noon Day Gun (you’ll hear its crack at twelve precisely), with The One and Only Hotel and its private villas huddled around the canal below. There are magnificent views of the green belt of Signal Hill from even the shower and bath. The terrace, too, invites you to step out and contemplate this panorama. On a balmy summer’s evening, the play of light is remarkable. © UCLES 2014

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3 Extra sleeping accommodation is available in the TV lounge with a pair of specially commissioned daybeds imported from Switzerland. By day, these form very smart and comfortable seating or lounging spaces, while, at night, they can convert into fully functional beds on sprung bases to make a pair of twins or a king bed. This area is serviced by another bathroom with its own wet room and power shower. The fully-equipped kitchen is ergonomic perfection. Built-in appliances, coupled with finger-touch drawers and cupboards, make it heaven for gastronomes. Stylish cobalt blue stone surfaces, punctuated with silver glints, add a dramatic signature to the kitchen’s muted off-white and teal1 colour scheme. Aspiring chefs can communicate directly with their guests in the lounge and dining area, with a serving counter providing direct and practical access from the kitchen. The glass dining table is another spectacular creation and provides generous seating for at least 8 people. The extremely comfortable dining chairs were specially made in a grey-blue leather to match the sofa in the lounge and to marry in with tall units in the kitchen. The lighting of the dining area was created for atmosphere to allow focused lighting on the table while reducing the light level throughout the rest of the open-plan space. All of this can be adjusted at the touch of a button on the remote control. We love to dine here having put together a lovely meal with a good bottle of wine from our cellar collection – also available to our guests. A few tea-lights in white porcelain holders add further to the atmosphere as does the wonderful sound of the music from the speakers. Looking towards the balcony from the table and through the sheer red chilli metallic drapes, the lights of the marina shine like stars. It really is so magical. 1 teal :

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4 2

The following text is taken from a magazine feature which describes the underwater exploration of the ship Titanic, which sank in 1912.

(a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to convey the atmosphere of the scene. [15]

(b) The writer publishes a magazine feature in which he describes his exploration of another unusual location (real or imaginary). In it he creates a strong sense of atmosphere.

Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this article. Base your answer closely on the features of the writing in the original extract. [10]

It had been five hours since my intrepid robot Gilligan left its garage on the front of the submersible Mir 1 and disappeared inside the cavernous shipwreck.

Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

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Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

It was an eerie feeling but also strangely comforting, as if I were somehow home.

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6 3

The following text is taken from an autobiographical account. The writer recalls his early life in Havana, Cuba, and the time when the leader of the country, Batista, was overthrown by his opponents. At this stage, the writer feels that he is an outsider both in terms of his family and the outside world.

(a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to represent the writer’s thoughts and feelings. [15]

(b) Later, the writer’s mother records the experience of this day in her diary. Write a section of the diary entry (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

The world changed while I slept, and much to my surprise, no one had consulted me. That’s how it would always be from that day forward. Of course, that’s the way it had been all along. I just didn’t know it until that morning. I was barely eight years old, and I had spent hours dreaming of childish things, as children do. My father, who vividly remembered his prior incarnation as King Louis XVI1 of France, probably dreamt of costume balls, mobs, and guillotines2. My mother, who had no memory of having been Marie Antoinette3, couldn’t have shared in his dreams. Maybe she dreamt of hibiscus blossoms and fine silk. Maybe she dreamt of angels, as she always encouraged me to do. “Sueña con los angelitos,” she would say: Dream of little angels. The fact that they were little meant they were too cute to be fallen angels.

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The tropical sun knifed through the gaps in the wooden shutters, as always, extending in narrow shafts of light above my bed, revealing entire galaxies of swirling dust specks. I stared at the dust, as always, rapt4. I don’t remember getting out of bed. But I do remember walking into my parents’ bedroom. Their shutters were open 15 and the room was flooded with light. As always, my father was putting on his trousers over his shoes. He always put on his socks and shoes first, and then his trousers. For years I tried to duplicate that nearly magical feat, with little success. The cuffs of my pants would always get stuck on my shoes and no amount of tugging could free them. More than once I risked an eternity in hell and spat out swear words. 20 As he slid his baggy trousers over his brown shoes, effortlessly, Louis XVI broke the news to me: “Batista is gone. He flew out of Havana early this morning. It looks like the rebels have won.” “You lie,” I said. “No, I swear, it’s true,” he replied.

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Marie Antoinette, my mother, assured me it was true as she applied lipstick, seated at her vanity table. It was a beautiful piece of mahogany furniture with three mirrors: one flat against the wall and two on either side of that, hinged so that their angles could be changed at will. I used to turn the side mirrors so they would face each other and create infinite regressions of one another. Sometimes I would peer in and 30 plunge into infinity. The night before, we had all gone to a wedding at a church in the heart of old Havana. On the way home, we had the streets to ourselves. Not another moving car in sight. Not a soul on the Malecón, the broad avenue along the waterfront. Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette kept talking about the eerie emptiness of the city. Havana was much too quiet for a New Year’s Eve. © UCLES 2014

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7 I can’t remember what my older brother, Tony, was doing that morning or for the rest of the day. Maybe he was wrapping lizards in thin copper wire and hooking them up to our train transformer. He liked to electrocute them. He liked it a lot. My older brother and my adopted brother had both been Bourbon princes in a former life. My adopted brother had been the Dauphin, the heir to the French throne. My father had recognized him on the street one day, selling lottery tickets, and brought him to our house immediately. I was the outsider. The lizards remained oblivious to the news that day, as always. Contrary to what my brother Tony liked to say as he administered shock treatments to them, the lizards were not deluded in the least. They knew exactly what they were and always would be. Nothing had changed for them. Nothing would ever change. The world already belonged to them whole, free of vice and virtue. They scurried up and down the walls of the patio, and along its brightly colored floor tiles. They lounged on tree branches, sunned themselves on rocks. They clung to the ceilings inside our house, waiting for bugs to eat. They never fell in love, or sinned, or suffered broken hearts. They knew nothing of betrayal or humiliation. They needed no revolutions. They feared neither death nor torture at the hands of children. They worried not about curses, or proof of God’s existence, or nakedness. Their limbs looked an awful lot like our own, in the same way that eggplants resembled breasts. Lizards were ugly, to be sure – or so I thought back then. They made me question the goodness of creation.

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I could never kiss a lizard, I thought. Never. Perhaps I envied them. Their place on earth was more secure than ours. We would lose our place, lose our world. They are still basking in the sun. Same way. Day in, day out. 1 Louis

XVI : the deposed King of France at the time of the French Revolution in 1789, later executed by guillotine by his opponents 2 guillotine : device which drops a heavy blade, used to execute people 3 Marie Antoinette : wife of King Louis XVI, also executed 4 rapt : enchanted

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

1

The following extract is taken from a speech given by Martin Luther King, a leading civil rights campaigner, when he received the Nobel Peace Prize, in Oslo, 1964. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to persuade the audience. [15] (b) Continue the speech (between 120–150 words). You do not have to bring it to a conclusion. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

After contemplation, I conclude that this award which I receive is a profound recognition that nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral question of our time – the need for man to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to violence and oppression. Civilization and violence are antithetical concepts. Sooner or later all the people of the world will have to discover a way to live together in peace, and thereby transform this pending cosmic elegy1 into a creative psalm of brotherhood. If this is to be achieved, man must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love.

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I accept this award today with an abiding faith and an audacious faith in the future of 10 mankind. I refuse to accept despair as the final response to the ambiguities of history. I refuse to accept the idea that the “isness” of man’s present nature makes him morally incapable of reaching up for the eternal “oughtness” that forever confronts him. I refuse to accept the idea that man is mere flotsam and jetsam in the river of life, unable to influence the unfolding events which surround him. I refuse to 15 accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality. I refuse to accept the cynical notion that nation after nation must spiral down a militaristic stairway into the hell of thermonuclear destruction. I believe that unarmed 20 truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant. I believe that even amid today’s mortar bursts and whining bullets, there is still hope for a brighter tomorrow. I believe that wounded justice, lying prostrate on the blood-flowing streets of our nations, can be lifted from this dust of shame to reign supreme among the children 25 of men. I have the audacity to believe that peoples everywhere can have three meals a day for their bodies, education and culture for their minds, and dignity, equality and freedom for their spirits. I believe that what self-centered men have torn down men other-centered can build up. I still believe that one day mankind will bow before the altars of God and be crowned triumphant over war and bloodshed, and nonviolent 30 redemptive good will proclaim the rule of the land. “And the lion and the lamb shall lie down together and every man shall sit under his own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid.” I still believe that “We Shall Overcome!”2 This faith can give us courage to face the uncertainties of the future. It will give our tired feet new strength as we continue our forward stride toward the city of freedom. 35 When our days become dreary with low-hovering clouds and our nights become darker than a thousand midnights, we will know that we are living in the creative turmoil of a genuine civilization struggling to be born. Today I come to Oslo as a trustee, inspired and with renewed dedication to humanity. I accept this prize on behalf of all men who love peace and brotherhood. I say I 40 © UCLES 2015

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3 come as a trustee, for in the depths of my heart I am aware that this prize is much more than an honour to me personally. Every time I take a flight, I am always mindful of the many people who make a successful journey possible – the known pilots and the unknown ground crew. So you honour the dedicated pilots of our struggle who have sat at the controls as 45 the freedom movement soared into orbit. You honour the ground crew without whose labour and sacrifices the jet flights to freedom could never have left the earth. Most of these people will never make the headline and their names will not appear in ‘Who’s Who’. Yet when years have rolled past and when the blazing light of truth is focused on this marvellous age in which we live – men and women will know and children 50 will be taught that we have a finer land, a better people, a more noble civilization – because these humble children of God were willing to suffer for righteousness’ sake. 1 2

elegy : lament We Shall Overcome! : famous protest song of the Civil Rights Movement

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The following text is taken from the writer’s autobiography. It describes her memories of growing up in Egypt. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to create a sense of mood and place. [15] (b) Later in her autobiography the writer describes another place which brings back strong memories of a particular time in her life. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this description. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the writing in the original extract. [10]

It was as if there were to life itself a quality of music in that time, the era of my childhood, and in that place, the remote edge of Cairo. There the city petered out into a scattering of villas leading into tranquil country fields. On the other side of our house was the profound, unsurpassable quiet of the desert. There was, to begin with, always the sound — sometimes no more than a mere 5 breath — of the wind in the trees, each variety of tree having its own music, its own way of conversing. I knew them all like friends (when we left in the summers for Alexandria I would, the last day, make the round of the garden saying goodbye to the trees), although none more intimately than the two trees on either side of the corner bedroom I shared with Nanny. On one side was the silky, barely perceptible 10 breath of the mimosa, which, when the wind grew strong, would scratch lightly with its thorns at the shutters of the window facing the front of the house, looking out onto the garden. On the other side was the dry, faintly rattling shuffle of the longleaved eucalyptus that stood by the window facing the street. On hot nights the street lamp cast the shadows of the slender twirling eucalyptus leaves onto my 15 bedroom wall, my own secret cinema. I would fall asleep watching those dancing shadows — imagining to myself that I saw a house in them and people going about their lives. They would appear at the door or windows of their shadow house and talk and come out and do things on the balcony. I would go to bed looking forward to finding out what had happened next in their lives. 20 I loved the patterns of light cast by leaves on the earth and I loved being in them, under them. The intricate, gently shifting patterns that the flame tree cast where the path widened toward the garden gate, fading and growing strong again as a cloud passed, could hold me still, totally lost, for long moments. Almost everything then seemed to have its own beat, its own lilt: sounds that 25 distilled the sweetness of being, others that made audible its terrors, and sounds for everything between. The cascading cry of the karawan, a bird I heard but never saw, came only in the dusk. Its long melancholy call descending down the scale was like the pure expression of lament at the fall of things, all endings that the end of light 30 presaged1. Then there was the music of the street beyond the garden hedge in the day, not noisy but alive, between long intervals of silence, with the sounds of living. People walking, greeting one another, the clip-clop of a donkey, sometimes of a horse. Street vendors’ calls — “ tama-a-tim” for tomatoes, “robbabe-e-eccia-a” for old clothes and furniture. And the sound, occasionally, of cars, though rarely enough for us to be 35 able to detect the horn and the engine even of our own car. Our dog, Frankie, could detect it long before we could, when the car was still almost two miles away.

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5 Then there was the sound sometimes, in the earliest morning, of the reed piper walking past our house. His pipe sounded private, like someone singing to himself. A simple, lovely sound, almost like speech, like a human voice. He would say “good 40 morning” with his pipe and one knew it to be “good morning”. When he passed, it would feel as if something of infinite sweetness had momentarily graced one’s life and then faded irretrievably away. Years later I’d discover that in Sufi poetry this music of the reed is the quintessential music of loss and I’d feel, learning this, that I’d always known it to be so. In the 45 poetry of Jalaluddin Rumi, the classic master-poet of Sufism, the song of the reed is the metaphor for our human condition, haunted as we so often are by a vague sense of longing and of nostalgia, but nostalgia for we know not quite what. Cut from its bed and fashioned into a pipe, the reed forever laments the living earth that it once knew, crying out, whenever life is breathed into it, its ache and its yearning and 50 loss. We too live our lives haunted by loss we too, says Rumi, remember a condition of completeness that we once knew but have forgotten that we ever knew. The song of the reed and the music that haunts our lives is the music of loss, of loss and of remembrance. That’s how it was in the beginning, how it was to come to consciousness in this 55 place and this time and in a world alive, as it seemed, with the music of being. 1

presaged : anticipated

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The following newspaper article describes the writer’s experience of an outdoor activity she has not tried before. Training involves meeting her new instructor, Robert. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to convey the writer’s thoughts and feelings. [15] (b) Later, Robert records his own thoughts and feelings about the writer and the day’s training in his diary. Write a section of the diary entry (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10] “What’s your name?” I ask, staring up at a blue-eyed Adonis1 who is in every sense about to be my saviour. OK. I think. I’m a 44-year-old woman and a very fit man in his 20s might be flirting with me. Play it cool. Play it cool. I’m about to try river bobbing for the first time. I have looked it up online and it seems to involve sitting on a rubber ring and bouncing down rapids. Looks fun. Except I’ve booked the wrong course. I’m not river bobbing at all. I’m river swimming.

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This is an entirely different prospect. I have to dive into fast-flowing water, tackle rapids with nothing more than two wetsuits, a buoyancy jacket, a helmet and the limbs my mother gave me. I can’t do front crawl and, if I’m being honest, I can only 10 swim with a snorkel. “So I want you to shallow dive upstream and then front crawl as hard as you can across the current and meet me at that rock,” says Rob, pointing towards dark water that’s as fast as a whip. I stare back at him. Is now a good time to tell him I’m not very good at swimming? 15 No, I can’t. If I tell him, he might not let me do it and I’m supposed to be having a go. Giving up is not an option. “I haven’t really dived before,” I mumble, chewing my bottom lip. Rob blinks. “What? Ever?” I shake my head. He frowns. “Well, just watch me and copy. But don’t deep dive. 20 Keep it shallow. You’ll be fine.” He then dives in with the grace of a swan and front crawls effortlessly across the raging current. At this point, I wonder what on earth I am doing. My mother threatened to phone my editor a week ago and say I wasn’t allowed to do this. I wish she had. Still, in for a 25 penny, in for a pound. Life’s for living. And with that in mind, I belly flop, arms spreadeagled, into the river. It is so cold I think I might die, here and now. I gasp. My heart is pounding in my chest but somewhere, over the shock, I can hear Rob shouting, “Swim! Swim!”

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7 I have to front crawl my way out of this immediately, I think, and so start making 30 awkward windmill shapes with my arms until I can feel rocks scraping at my knees. I open my eyes. Rob is staring down at me. And that’s the first bit over. We clamber up the river bank. “Right,” says Rob, “this time I want you to jump in on your back, feet pointing downriver. The current is faster.” He then leaps in, and off 35 the water takes him. “Make sure you jump out far enough!” he yells. I give it a go. But I don’t jump out far enough and instead I land on a rock. I howl in pain, but as I spin down the river wondering if my buttock has been shattered, I can see Rob ahead. He’s gesturing to me to steer myself towards him. He’s perched on a rock. Ahead of him are some white-water rapids. I don’t want to go down those, I 40 think. So I try to stop. Except, I can’t. It’s at this point that Rob, as if he’s in a film, reaches for me, manages to get the end of his fingertips around my outstretched hand and yanks me to safety. He’s saved my life, I think. Technically, I now have to marry him. “Right,” says Rob, leading me further up the bank. “These are calmer rapids. It’s very, very important that you get your breathing right. Get it wrong and you’re going 45 to be in trouble. Feet up. Follow my line.” And in he leaps. I look at these calmer rapids. They don’t look very calm to me. They look positively livid. I can’t bring myself to leap in a third time, so I sort of flop in like a drunken seal. The water takes me immediately. I flip on to my back. I’m about to hit the first patch of white water, so I take a deep 50 breath and shut my mouth. Which is all very well, but a huge surge of water crashes over my head shooting straight up my nose. I start to choke and I can’t breathe, but I can’t do anything about it because a second wave of water is crashing over me and shoots up my nose again. “Oh dear,” I think as I tumble into a rock, “I might be about to drown.” And it is at this point, as I am choking and spluttering that Rob grabs me, 55 pulls me on to a rock and saves my life. Again. 1

Adonis : in Greek mythology, an extremely handsome young man

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following extract is taken from a speech to the Organisation of African Unity given by Kwame Nkrumah, President of Ghana, in 1963. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to persuade the audience. [15] (b) Continue the speech (between 120–150 words). You do not have to bring it to a close. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

Our objective is African union now. There is no time to waste. We must unite now or perish. African unity is, above all, a political kingdom which can only be gained by political means. Our people supported us in our fight for independence because they believed that African governments could cure the ills of the past in a way which could never be accomplished under colonial rule. If, therefore, now that we are independent we allow the same conditions to exist that existed in colonial days, all the resentment which overthrew colonialism will be mobilised against us. The resources are there. It is for us to marshal them in the active service of our people. Unless we do this by our concerted efforts, within the framework of our combined planning, we shall not progress at the tempo demanded by today’s events and the mood of our people. The symptoms of our troubles will grow, and the troubles themselves become chronic. It will then be too late for panAfrican unity to secure for us stability and tranquillity in our labours for a continent of social justice and material wellbeing. What need is there for us to remain hewers of wood and drawers of water for the industrialised areas of the world? It is said, of course, that we have no capital, no industrial skill, no communications, and no internal markets, and that we cannot even agree among ourselves how best to utilise our resources for our own social needs. Yet all stock exchanges in the world are preoccupied with Africa’s gold, diamonds, uranium, platinum, copper and iron ore.

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Our capital flows out in streams to irrigate the whole system of Western economy. Africa provides more than 60% of the world’s gold. A great deal of the uranium for nuclear power, of copper for electronics, of titanium for supersonic projectiles, of iron and steel for heavy industries, of other minerals and raw materials for lighter 25 industries – the basic economic might of the foreign powers – comes from our continent. Are you afraid to tackle the bull by the horn? For centuries, Africa has been the milch cow1 of the Western world. Was it not our continent that helped the Western world to build up its accumulated wealth?

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We have the resources. It was colonialism in the first place that prevented us from accumulating the effective capital; but we ourselves have failed to make full use of our power in independence to mobilise our resources for the most effective take-off into thorough-going economic and social development. We have been too busy nursing our separate states to understand fully the basic 35 need of our union, rooted in common purpose, common planning and common endeavour. A union that ignores these fundamental necessities will be but a sham. © UCLES 2015

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3 It is only by uniting our productive capacity and the resultant production that we can amass capital. And once we start, the momentum will increase. With capital controlled by our own banks, harnessed to our own true industrial and agricultural development, we shall make our advance. We shall accumulate machinery and establish steel works, iron foundries and factories; we shall link the various states of our continent with communications by land, sea, and air. We shall cable from one place to another, phone from one place to the other and astound the world with our hydro-electric power; we shall drain marshes and swamps, clear infested areas, feed the undernourished, and rid our people of parasites and disease. 1

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milch cow : milking cow

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The following text is taken from a travel book. It describes the writer’s experience of staying in Tahiti, an island in French Polynesia, an area of the southern Pacific Ocean. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to create a sense of mood and place. [15] (b) Later in her book, the writer describes a different type of location which has also affected her thoughts and feelings. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this description. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the writing in the original extract. [10]

My trip began in paradise. In Tahiti. It was one week before the French nuclear tests on the Mururoa atoll1, one week before protestors’ riots and looting ripped apart the Tahitian capital, Papeete. I saw none of that coming. I had never been to a more peaceful place. I was staying in a youth hostel, and it wasn’t long before a grubby group of us invaded the Hyatt Regency Hotel, occupying the terrace restaurant and securing seats overlooking the sea. We wanted to improve on our view. We wanted beer, nuts and co*cktails at eight dollars a shot, and the feeling of life being as close to perfect as it could ever be.

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It came close that night. A magnificent South Pacific sunset graced our efforts. 10 Gilded waves, a blazing sky containing every shade of red imaginable. We gaped at the west, our eyes never leaving it as we talked lazily about many things. Why Americans never travel anywhere. Why Germans always do. Didn’t Marlon Brando2 have an island somewhere around there? Didn’t his daughter kill herself? We all looked over at the dreadlocked Brit who asked this last question and admonished 15 him with our gazes: inappropriate subject. We would not tolerate such questions. Not now. Not in front of such perfection. Every day in Tahiti ended with sentimental perfection, as if it were always the last day before the end of the world. Beauty was ostentatious there. The air reeked of tiare3 and orange blossoms like a land wearing too much perfume; walking the streets meant treading on flowers shed like autumnal leaves. I wondered absently when I’d be dropped to earth again, a mortal. Too soon, surely. And I wasn’t yet prepared for the sobering jolt.

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The quietest of the group, I was surprised when the others joined me in silence. To the west, the night was taking over, creating an edge to the colors and slowly 25 blowing out the scene. Mauve. Dark maroon. Slowly, slowly. The sky and sea joining. A slice of moon asserting itself. The sounds of insects. A cooler ocean breeze. And night. Something akin to disappointment overtook us. The beers and co*cktails became much too expensive for us. The Hyatt Regency Hotel too stuffy. We counted out our loose change, piled it on the table, and left to the relief of the hotel staff.

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Heading to the youth hostel with everyone in the back of an old truck, I felt like one of Tahiti’s tupapau—ghosts—which people believed wandered endlessly and could only be persuaded to rest by lighting a kerosene lamp in the night. I was already feeling anxious to leave Tahiti. Inexplicably, I always needed to be somewhere else. 35 I’d left behind so much this time. Graduate school, my teaching job, my chance at © UCLES 2015

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5 having some savings. A boyfriend who loved me and whom I might have allowed myself to love back. The stars above, for all of the truck’s speed, didn’t seem to move. The wind lashed our hair back, sent our clothes beating upon us. Tahiti and its people appeared in glimpses of light: an old man walking beneath a street lamp, a pale ocean, a mother on her front steps calling to a child. I looked at the young people around me. Most of them had been in Tahiti for months, glorying like Fletcher Christian’s mutineers4 in how successfully they had evaded the rest of the world and its responsibilities. They lived, as I did, out of a backpack. They spent their nights getting Polynesian tattoos and drinking beer around bonfires on the sand, a society of merry vagabonds. I was always tentative about joining them, sitting on the fringe of the circle of light. I liked to watch them, wondering what happened when paradise officially became one’s home. Did the escapes stop then? Did one live a charmed life? For their lives, these happy people’s, indeed seemed charmed. I’d found that the most paradisiacal places in the world only distracted me for a few blessed days. It was like having an out-of-body experience: I stepped away from myself and my past, and resided in turquoise waters and white sands, pretending I wouldn’t ever have to return to anything. Rest and relaxation, people called it. I called it hope.

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atoll : coral island Marlon Brando : a Hollywood film star 3 tiare : a type of gardenia plant 4 Fletcher Christian’s mutineers : sailors, led by Fletcher Christian, who rebelled against their commanding officer on an expedition to Tahiti in the eighteenth century 2

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The following text describes how the writer, an English tutor, tries to help one of her students to take life less seriously. They are sitting in a Japanese sushi restaurant where food travels by conveyor belt. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to present the characters and the setting. [15] (b) Later, Yumiko records her thoughts and feelings about the evening in her diary. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of the diary entry. Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

That night at the cheap sushi place, Yumiko was complaining about her boyfriend. Yumiko didn’t really love him. He was boring. A purple running shoe rounded the bend behind a tub of wasabi1. I blinked and it was still there, unhurriedly cruising the conveyor belt. “… but love is not everything and I am getting old.” She bit her glossy lower lip. “You understand, Natalie?”

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Maguro2, shrimp, melon slice, wasabi, shoe. Yumiko saw it too. The running shoe crept by, its frayed laces dangling over the edge of the counter. Laughing, I turned to look at the other diners. The room was wide and white, with four rows of blood-orange seats lining the snakelike progression of the sushi track. The ceiling spewed out fluorescent light over the constant noise—children squealing, waiters singing welcome, men barking orders into tableside speakers. “I wonder what kind of person wears a purple shoe,” Yumiko said without smiling. She paused to brush her long braid over her shoulder.

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I was still laughing. “This is truly awesome.” “It’s not funny.” “Don’t worry,” I said. “Yes, you’re right,” she said, and relief spilled over her face. She scooped a heap of ginger out of a plastic bin on the table. I peeked across the restaurant. A few people were smiling and pointing.

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She looked across the restaurant. “My father thinks Satoshi will be a good husband.” I shoved a thick slab of salmon and rice into my mouth. The fish was a little oily, and everything melted on my tongue. I reached for another piece while I was still chewing, then realized Yumiko was waiting for me to say something. I swallowed.

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I saw the high heel only as it reached Yumiko’s right shoulder. It was black and it reflected stripes of light. She gasped. “We should leave, maybe.” I laughed, listening as the key of the restaurant changed from flat to sharp, with high-pitched tones of wonder winding through the place. “No way we’re leaving now! © UCLES 2015

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7 Look!” Across the aisle, a woman was wiping the face of a tiny baby in a booster seat. The little girl behind her had slipped off her shoe and was reaching up toward the moving belt. Her smile, stretched to its limits, burst into a shriek of laughter as she carefully set the shoe down. She stood up on the bright plastic seat and leaned over the plates of sushi to watch it disappear.

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“I cannot believe that girl!” Yumiko said. “Just watch what her mother will say.” The mother finally did turn back to the girl, who was still leaning against the counter. She looked at her daughter standing in the seat, and took one look at her bare foot before she threw her head back, giggling. She spun back to the baby in the booster seat, who was now kicking his feet, riding an imaginary bicycle. Off came a green knitted bootie. From mother’s hand to daughter’s, and onto the belt between two pieces of eel.

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I grinned at Yumiko, who was still chewing absently, and bent down. 45 “No! Stop! Don’t do it please.” Her voice was desperate. “What’s wrong? This is funny. Come on, everyone’s laughing.” I patted a passing green tennis shoe. “I think I’m going to call Satoshi.” She reached for her phone. Her hand trembled. I reached across the table and touched her arm. 50 “Yumiko, come on. No one’s getting hurt.” All around us, groups were shouting, laughing, taking plates off the conveyor belt in order to make more room for the shoes that were beginning to crowd it. Waitresses continued buzzing, whisking beers and soup bowls with the efficiency of worker bees. 55 As the noise level of the restaurant billowed up towards hysterical, Yumiko smiled. Her phone rang. She looked at me; we both looked at the phone. The room broke into applause and instead of answering the call she swung her legs around to stand up on her seat along with me and some other customers. We whistled and whooped. Her phone was still ringing. 1 2

wasabi : spicy vegetable sauce maguro: tuna sushi dish

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following extract is taken from a speech given by Jawaharlal Nehru, the Prime Minister of India, in 1947. In it, he celebrates the beginning of India’s new independence. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to persuade the audience. [15] (b) Continue the speech (between 120–150 words). You do not have to bring it to a close. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10] Long years ago we made a tryst1 with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.

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It is fitting that at this solemn moment we take the pledge of dedication to the service of India and her people and to the still larger cause of humanity. At the dawn of history India started on her unending quest, and trackless centuries are filled with her striving and the grandeur of her success and her failures. Through 10 good and ill fortune alike she has never lost sight of that quest or forgotten the ideals which gave her strength. We end today a period of ill fortune and India discovers herself again. The achievement we celebrate today is but a step, an opening of opportunity, to the greater triumphs and achievements that await us. Are we brave enough and wise 15 enough to grasp this opportunity and accept the challenge of the future? Freedom and power bring responsibility. The responsibility rests upon this assembly, a sovereign body representing the sovereign people of India. Before the birth of freedom we have endured all the pains of labour and our hearts are heavy with the memory of this sorrow. Some of those pains continue even now. Nevertheless, the 20 past is over and it is the future that beckons to us now. That future is not one of ease or resting but of incessant striving so that we may fulfil the pledges we have so often taken and the one we shall take today. The service of India means the service of the millions who suffer. It means the ending of poverty and ignorance and disease and inequality of opportunity. 25 The ambition of the greatest man of our generation has been to wipe every tear from every eye. That may be beyond us, but as long as there are tears and suffering, so long our work will not be over. And so we have to labour and to work, and work hard, to give reality to our dreams. Those dreams are for India, but they are also for the world, for all the nations and 30 peoples are too closely knit together today for any one of them to imagine that it can live apart. Peace has been said to be indivisible; so is freedom, so is prosperity now, and so also is disaster in this one world that can no longer be split into isolated fragments. 35 © UCLES 2015

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3 To the people of India, whose representatives we are, we make an appeal to join us with faith and confidence in this great adventure. This is no time for petty and destructive criticism, no time for ill will or blaming others. We have to build the noble mansion of free India where all her children may dwell. The appointed day has come – the day appointed by destiny – and India stands forth again, after long slumber and struggle, awake, vital, free and independent. The past clings on to us still in some measure and we have to do much before we redeem the pledges we have so often taken. Yet the turning point is past, and history begins anew for us, the history which we shall live and act and others will write about.

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It is a fateful moment for us in India, for all Asia and for the world. A new star rises, the star of freedom in the east, a new hope comes into being, a vision long cherished materialises. May the star never set and that hope never be betrayed!

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We rejoice in that freedom, even though clouds surround us, and many of our people are sorrow-stricken and difficult problems encompass us. But freedom brings responsibilities and burdens and we have to face them in the spirit of a free and disciplined people. 1

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tryst : date.

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4 2

The following text is taken from the journalist’s website. It describes his thoughts and feelings about a particular place in Ghana, Africa. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to create a sense of mood and place. [15] (b) The tour guide, Prosper, is not as enthusiastic about the setting as the writer is. Later, he sends a letter to his daughter. In it, he describes his thoughts and feelings about the visit to the waterfall and the journalist’s writing in response to it. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of the letter. Base your answer closely on material of the original extract. [10]

There is something at Wli Waterfall that connects with the soul. Something surreal and yet so real. Something soothing that snaps a bouquet of emotions. It makes you thirst to see the water again. It makes you hunger for nature’s food for thought. This craving led me to the Waterfall, again. This time I was alert to unravel the mystery of Wli. I went with a critical observational stance. That ‘oh, it’s just another waterfall attitude.’ But at the end I bowed, as I was bowled over by the spectacle.

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The magic lies in witnessing tons and tons of water thunder down in an awesome, perpetual splash. This splash engulfs a large circumference creating a calming, cold-room of an atmosphere. By being there one is odorised with a refreshing spray of white water. This, added to the music of the water-rush in a lush forest, creates a 10 Garden-of-Eden effect. The water cascaded between what appears to be two huge blocks of hills standing shoulder to shoulder. When the wind blew, it blew a gust of refreshing dew across my face seeping into my skin. I was wet, yet I wanted more. My T-shirt hugged my body. There was no complaining. Without tasting it, I could sense the cool sweetness 15 of the water. Still rooted to the ground, I looked up. I could only wonder. What does this sight look like when it is midnight and the sun has gone to bed? What would the effect be when the moon strikes the water with her light? Would a rainbow appear? Through the course of time, how many souls have beheld this display? How many more would? 20 Only one other person was close by, Prosper my tour guide. This man has seen this scene a thousand times. But what does it mean to him? Beyond the daily drudgery and his desire to pay his only daughter’s school fees, has Prosper ever stood to search his soul in this temple of nature? Standing at a respectable distance he was only accompanying another tourist. If this was a shrine Prosper is the one who 25 would hold the sacrifice. On our way here it was all talk. But now I have no question for him. I wondered if he understood my silence. I remained upright. My chin was up in the air and my head dropped in the opposite direction. I watched and I watched. The water kept falling and falling. And with a forceful rapidity too. It was a never-ending rhythm; a great mass of water thundering 30 down, followed by a great mass of water thundering down, followed by a great mass of water thundering down … I thought I would be enraptured up to meet the plunging grandeur in one blissful embrace. I had a strange feeling that something was about to appear. A face above the source of the water, a mystical face looming large and high. The earthly truth is 35 that what is above is another waterfall, too high for my mortal eyes to behold. © UCLES 2015

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5 Still standing in the shadows of the mighty fall I beheld another spectacle. Far above, and glued to the hills, a battalion of bats had taken position. Hundreds of them, all motionless. No flapping, no flying, no floating. They clung to the cliffs as if captured in a time capsule. I believed they were throating out some sounds. But oh, no. No sound could rise above the gushing of the great cascade. I dropped my gaze only for my eyes to find another feast at the foot of the mountain, an inviting pool. This has been created as the water hits the ground. Because the fall’s vertical journey is over a great height the water actually breaks up into a white spray before collecting once more in the swimming pool below. As it does that, strong winds created by the uproar within the gorge spray the water on the visitor (the same way a priest dispenses holy water to a congregation). One such spray touched me and I thought of simulating the sign of the cross. I didn’t but I still felt healed, de-toxified. Suddenly, my knot of stress fell off and rolled away. The (city accumulated) affliction brought about by polluted air, car fumes, open gutters, plastic waste, rubbish heaps, irritating noise and hustling human parasites was no more. I felt empty and stress-less. What this therapy does is exercise the limbs and strengthen the heart. The visitor inhales fresh, oxygen-rich air. As you walk over fallen leaves, you hear the roar of the waterfall. Additionally, the cries of forest animals serenade you. If you are lucky a butterfly or two will touch your body with a kiss.

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The following newspaper article describes a relationship where both partners – for different reasons – have received negative publicity in the media. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to present the couple.

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(b) Later, the writer publishes a newspaper article about another couple who have also received negative publicity in the media. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this article. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the writing in the original extract. The couple may be real or imaginary. [10]

The Frenchman, seated on a patterned sofa in a London hotel suite, is a study in still intensity. Pascal Rubenat is wearing khaki combat trousers, a cream shirt and boots that look like they have tramped through muddy fields. He has a lot on his mind right now.

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His wife, Samantha Brick, has been ridiculed, pilloried and insulted by thousands of people around the world. She has been accused of being deluded. It has even been said she is in urgent need of psychiatric help. The storm at the centre of which Pascal finds himself erupted on Tuesday, after his 10 wife decided to write about the burden she feels she has carried all her life — the burden of being beautiful. Ever since her late teens, she opined, she has had to fend off advances from amorous strangers who would accost her in the street bearing flowers and champagne and proffering bundles of cash to pay her taxi fare. 15 Not only that, she has had to contend with streams of jealous women who hated her just because of her head-turning looks. Within hours of her article being published Samantha became the most talked about woman on Earth. So what does the brooding, mustachioed Pascal make of it all?

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Well, first, he would like to make one thing clear. He agrees with Samantha. Wholeheartedly. Not only is she beautiful, he announces, to him she is the most beautiful woman in the world. Gazing into the statuesque blonde’s eyes, he puts his arms around her playfully. ‘Samantha is beautiful in every sense of the word,’ he gushes. Samantha giggles indulgently and affectionately squeezes his knee. Pascal can barely take his eyes off her. Beautiful or not, this is one man over whom Samantha Brick has absolute control. I’m supposed to be conducting an interview here. Instead I feel something of a spare part. © UCLES 2015

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7 Pascal is clearly protective of his lovely wife, so I ask if the unprecedented onslaught of abuse she has received in recent days has made him angry.

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The Gallic carpenter strokes his chin deep in thought and takes a sip from a glass of beer. ‘I can’t be angry otherwise I can’t help Sam,’ he begins, in his native French. ‘I am OK, because Sam is well.’

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But then Pascal, who himself became the subject of much internet ridicule after the picture of him posing alongside his wife with a rifle was published on the internet, issues a chilling, but tongue-in-cheek, warning. ‘If I have to intervene violently, I will intervene. I am here to protect my wife. It is my role as a husband to comfort, console and support her.’

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He runs his fingers over his moustache. Here is a man who clearly means business. So, in case any readers are unaware of what has become one of the Twitter era’s biggest media storms, what did Samantha say in her article to provoke such venom? Explaining the effect she has on men (swooning) and women (sniping), she wrote she’d had champagne, flowers and a train ticket bought for her by strangers, adding: ‘Even bartenders frequently shoo my credit card away when I try to settle my bill.’ Within hours, Samantha was being referred to online and on radio and TV stations worldwide as ‘I’m so beautiful Samantha’.

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And she rapidly became an internet sensation, trending globally on Twitter. The remarks were many and varied but there was a recurring theme. I meet the pair at a hotel. To begin with I simply cannot take my eyes off Samantha. An assessment of her looks is necessary. She is very tall, 5ft 11in to be exact (the same height as Pascal, who doesn’t like her to wear heels in his presence). She is very blonde, with hazel-green eyes.

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She is very striking and very pretty — far more attractive than the picture that accompanied the original article suggests. But the stories of all these men falling at her feet suggest Samantha must possess more than this; something rare, something elusive. She must be some sort of enchantress, surely?

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I look around me in search of swooning males. The waiter who brings us lunch seems perfectly in command of himself. Later, we take a walk out on the street. Samantha attracts the odd admiring glance (as, I might add, do I) but, on this occasion, no flowers or champagne come her way. But then she has her husband, the well-built Frenchman at her side, keeping an ever-watchful eye. It would take a brave man to put himself in the path of powerful Pascal. © UCLES 2015

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

1

The following text is the opening from an investigative article about Liberia, a country recently devastated by civil war. The writer was sent to the country for a week by the international aid charity Oxfam in order to see its help in action. (a) Comment on the ways in which the language and style present the writer’s initial impressions of the country and the aid efforts. [15] (b) Another writer has been asked to write the script of a television appeal for charity donations (120–150 words). Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the text for the charity appeal. [10]

MONDAY There is no real road network in Liberia. During the late-summer rainy season much of the country is inaccessible. Tonight the torrential rain is unseasonable (it is March), but the road is the best in the country, properly surfaced: one long, straight line from the airport to the Mamba Point Hotel in Monrovia. Lysbeth Holdaway, Oxfam’s press officer, sits in the back of an all-weather 4×4 outlining Liberia’s present situation. Even by the standards with which she is familiar, Liberia is exceptional. ‘Threequarters of the population live below the poverty line – that’s one US dollar a day – half are on less than fifty cents a day. What infrastructure there was has been destroyed – roads, ports, municipal electricity, water, sanitation, schools, hospitals – all desperately lacking or non-existent; eighty-six per cent unemployment, no street lights…’ Through the car window dead street lamps can be seen, stripped of their components during the war. Lightning continues to reveal the scene: small huts made of mud bricks; sheets of corrugated iron and refuse; more bored young men, sitting in groups, dully watching the cars go by. The cars are of two types: huge Toyota Land Cruiser pick-ups like this one, usually with ‘UN’ stamped on their bonnets, or taxis, dilapidated yellow Nissans, the back windows of which reveal six people squeezed into the backseats, four in the front. Our driver, John Flomo, is asked whether the essentials – a water and sanitation system, electricity, schools – existed prior to the war. ‘Some, yes. In towns. Less in the country.’ Even the electricity that lights the airport is not municipal. It comes from a hydro plant belonging to Firestone, the American rubber company famous for its tyres. Firestone purchased one million acres of this country in 1926, a ninety-nine-year lease at the bargain rate of six cents an acre. It uses its hydro plant to power its operation. The airport electricity is a ‘gift’ to the nation, although Firestone’s business could not function without an airport. ‘All this is Firestone,’ says Flomo, pointing at the darkness. TUESDAY The Mamba Point Hotel is an unusual Liberian building. It is air-conditioned, with toilets and clean drinking water. In the car park a dozen UN trucks are parked. In the breakfast room the guests are uniform: button-down collars, light khakis, MacBook computers. ‘Here’s the crazy thing,’ one man tells another over croissants. ‘Malaria isn’t even a hard problem to solve.’ At a corner table, an older woman reels off blunt statistics to a newcomer, who notes them down: ‘Population, three point five million. Over a hundred thousand with HIV; male life expectancy, thirty-eight; female, fortytwo. Sixty-five Liberian dollars to one US. Officially literacy is fifty-seven per cent, but that figure is really prewar – there’s this whole missing generation…’ In the corner bar, a dozen male Liberian waiters rest against the counter, devotedly following Baywatch1. © UCLES 2016

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3 All trips by foreigners, however brief, are done in the NGO2 Land Cruisers. The twominute journey to Oxfam headquarters passes an open rubbish dump. The NGO buildings are lined up on ‘UN Drive’. Each has a thick boundary wall, stamped with its own logo, patrolled by Liberian security. The American embassy goes further, annexing an entire street. These offices resemble an English sixth-form college, a white concrete block with swinging doors and stone stairwells. On each door there is a sticker: NO FIREARMS. 1 2

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Baywatch : glamorous American television soap-opera NGO : Non-governmental organisation

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4 2

The following extract is part of a speech given by the black American civil-rights activist Malcolm X in 1963. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) Write the opening of a speech (between 120–150 words) that deals with another major issue. Base your answer closely on the language and style of the original. [10]

I’m not a politician, not even a student of politics; in fact, I’m not a student of much of anything. I’m not a Democrat. I’m not a Republican, and I don’t even consider myself an American. If you and I were Americans, there’d be no problem. Those Honkies1 that just got off the boat, they’re already Americans; immigrant Poles are already Americans; the Italian refugees are already Americans. Everything that came out of Europe, every blue-eyed thing, is already an American. And as long as you and I have been over here, we aren’t Americans yet. Well, I am one who doesn’t believe in deluding myself. I’m not going to sit at your table and watch you eat, with nothing on my plate, and call myself a diner. Sitting at the table doesn’t make you a diner, unless you eat some of what’s on that plate. Being here in America doesn’t make you an American. Being born here in America doesn’t make you an American. Why, if birth made you American, you wouldn’t need any legislation; you wouldn’t need any amendments to the Constitution; you wouldn’t be faced with civil-rights filibustering2 in Washington, D.C., right now. They don’t have to pass civil-rights legislation to make an Italian an American. No, I’m not an American. I’m one of the 22 million black people who are the victims of Americanism. One of the 22 million black people who are the victims of democracy, nothing but disguised hypocrisy. So, I’m not standing here speaking to you as an American, or a patriot, or a flag-saluter, or a flag-waver – no, not I. I’m speaking as a victim of this American system. And I see America through the eyes of the victim. I don’t see any American dream; I see an American nightmare. These 22 million victims are waking up. Their eyes are coming open. They’re beginning to see what they used to only look at. They’re becoming politically mature. They are realizing that there are new political trends from coast to coast. As they see these new political trends, it’s possible for them to see that every time there’s an election the races are so close that they have to have a recount. They had to recount in Massachusetts to see who was going to be governor, it was so close. It was the same way in Rhode Island, in Minnesota, and in many other parts of the country. And the same with Kennedy and Nixon when they ran for president. It was so close they had to count all over again. Well, what does this mean? It means that when white people are evenly divided, and black people have a bloc of votes of their own, it is left up to them to determine who’s going to sit in the White House and who’s going to be in the dog house. It was the black man’s vote that put the present administration in Washington, D.C. Your vote, your dumb vote, your ignorant vote, your wasted vote put in an administration in Washington, D.C., that has seen fit to pass every kind of legislation imaginable, saving you until last, then filibustering on top of that. And your and my leaders have the audacity to run around clapping their hands and talk about how much progress we’re making. 1 2

Honkies : slang for white people filibustering : preventing reform legislation by endlessly delaying it

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The passage below is an autobiographical memoir of an American sailor’s experience of Pearl Harbor, the attack on American territory in Hawaii by the Japanese in 1941. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) Continue the memoir for a further 120–150 words. You should base your answer closely on the language and style of the original extract. You do not need to bring it to a conclusion. [10]

George Phraner’s Brush with Death Aboard the USS Arizona USS Arizona (BB-39) George D. Phraner Aviation Machinist’s Mate 1/c USS Arizona – (BB-39) Battle Station: Forward 5 inch Gun.

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As usual, there was a warm breeze that Sunday morning. We had just finished breakfast and drifted out of the compartment to get a little air. This was our normal routine on weekends as we had no work station to report to. It was fortunate for us that we were able to sleep in until 6:30 as many of us had been out the night before. Just as we left the mess area we heard this noise. We went outside to take a look because it’s usually very quiet. When we arrived we could hear and see there were airplanes. I looked across the bow of the ship and could see large plumes of smoke coming up from Ford Island. At first, we didn’t realize it was a bombing. It didn’t mean anything to us until a large group of planes came near the ship and we could see for the first time the rising sun emblem on the plane wings. The bombing was becoming heavier all around us and we knew this was REALLY IT! At first there was a rush of fear, the blood started to flow real fast. It was then that general quarters1 sounded over the speaker and everything became automatic. My battle station was on a forward 5 inch gun and it was standard practice to keep only a limited amount of ammunition at the guns. There was only one ready gun crew on each side and mine wasn’t one of them. There we were, the Japanese dropping bombs over us and we had no ammo. All the training and practicing for a year and when the real thing came we had no ammunition where we needed it. As unfortunate as this was, that simple fact was to save my life. Somehow the gun captain pointed at me and said, “you go aft and start bringing up the ammunition out of the magazines”. The aft magazines were five decks below. A few moments later I found myself deep below the water line in a part of the ship I normally would never be in. I remember getting these cases of ammo powder and shells weighing about 90 pounds each. I had begun lifting shells into the hoist when a deafening roar filled the room and the entire ship shuddered. It was the forward magazine. One and half million pounds of gun powder exploding in a massive fireball disintegrating the whole forward part of the ship. Only moments before I stood with my gun crew just a few feet from the center of the explosion. Admiral Kidd, Captain Van Velkenburg, my whole gun crew was killed. Everyone on top. Seconds after the explosion the lights went out and it was pitch black. Almost immediately a thick acrid smoke filled the magazine locker and the metal walls began to get hot. In the dark and not being able to breathe, we made our way to the door hatch, only to find it shut and locked. Somehow we were able to open the hatch © UCLES 2016

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6 and start to make our way up the ladder. A quick glance around revealed nothing in the darkness, but the moaning and sounds of falling bodies told me that some of my shipmates had succumbed to defeat and had died in their attempt to survive. Getting through that choking kind of smoke was a real ordeal, the kind of smoke that really hurt your lungs. After awhile I began to get weak and lightheaded. I could feel myself losing the battle to save my own life. I hung to the ladder, feeling good. I felt that it was all right for me to let go. At that moment I looked up and could see a small point of light through the smoke. It gave me the strength to go on. After what seemed to me like an eternity, I reached the deck gasping and choking. I laid down for a few moments. The warm Hawaiian air filled my lungs and cleared my head. I glanced over to the forward end of the ship to see nothing but a giant wall of flame and smoke. 1

general quarters : the call for the crew to go to battle stations

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The article below is a newspaper opinion column that discusses contact with work during holiday periods. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) The same writer publishes a second article complaining about another problem in modern life. Write the opening of this article (between 120–150 words). Base your article closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Out of office, out of mind – free yourself from inbox tyranny on holiday We should all follow car maker Daimler’s lead and release ourselves from the evils of the out-of-office reply while away Preparing to go on holiday has always required a checklist – passport, swimming costume, that first volume of Karl Ove Knausgård you’ve been meaning to read because everyone says it’s amazing (spoiler: it is). But in the modern era there is another decision that could make or break your holiday: how will you set your email out-of-office reply?

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Will you simply say, for example, that you are on “holiday” or will you announce grandly that you are on “annual leave”? More importantly, will you stick to what your out-of-office says? Do you plan to check your email while away or blithely ignore it all? Best, surely, just to commit it to the digital inferno.

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The German car maker Daimler is offering its employees a blissful solution. With the company’s “mail on holiday” inbox feature, correspondents will be told to contact someone else because all email sent to this person while they are on holiday will just be deleted. That’s right: destroyed. Gone. Imagine the calm of getting home. No horrifically bulging inbox. Nothing to “catch up” on. A sneaky brutality is concealed within this notion of having to catch up on stuff after your holiday, as though office life were an engrossing television drama filled with excitement and dragons. If you are obliged to catch up on what you’ve “missed” while on holiday, that implies you shouldn’t really have been on holiday. It is a reminder that time off is a gift in return for your servitude during the rest of the year. The fear that catching up on a fortnight’s email will be epically disgusting labour convinces people to check their email while away. Some say they need to “keep in touch” with the office, as if it were a friend. (Such fake friendship usually operates in only one direction, like “loyalty” to a supermarket.) Unfortunately, science seems to confirm what we already knew: that worrying about the office will ruin your holiday. The neuroscientist David Levitin recently declared the importance, in addition to naps and daydreaming, of taking “true vacations without work” for optimum mental functioning. © UCLES 2016

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3 Our European cousins are at the forefront of more humane approaches to work communication. Earlier this year some French workers benefited from a new agreement obliging them to disconnect from work communication after office hours. But for something like Daimler’s brutal total-email-zapping holiday system to gain widespread acceptance is a problem a little like that of world communism: it has to happen all at once and everywhere. While there are still people who assiduously work on their supposed holiday, they’ll be making the refuseniks1 look bad, even if they’re not plotting to steal their jobs. For everyone’s psychic comfort, it is crucial we avoid sending out mixed messages. I recently received an out-of-office reply from someone who said they were on holiday and not reading emails, but that if I were to email them and add the word “Urgent” in the subject line they would in fact read it and do something. Naturally, I instantly re-sent the same email, with “Urgent” bolted on, thus doubling the volume of email this poor person had received from me while on a supposedly relaxing trip. Of course, I felt sorry for the recipient. At the same time, the out-of-office message had literally asked for it. What is needed is a go-slow solidarity movement. Let us all set our out-of-office wording to manage expectations violently downwards. A little poetic licence should be acceptable too. For instance: “I’m on holiday, on the moon. As you may be aware, there is no Wi-Fi or phone signal on the moon. See you when I get back!”

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Workers of the world unite: you have nothing to lose but your two-week backlog of reply-all email chains. Notes: 1

refusenik : someone who refuses to do a task.

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4 2

The following text is from Langston Hughes’s autobiography The Big Sea (1940). In this extract he recalls journeying back to the United States from Africa with a pet monkey. (a) Comment on the language and style of the passage.

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(b) Later, Langston Hughes recalls arriving at the docks in America, where the monkey escapes once again. Write the opening of this new account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original. [10]

It made him furious to have to get back in his cage, when it was time for me to go to work.

Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

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5 Content removed due to copyright restrictions. But finally he leaped chattering into my arms and devoured a prune.

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6 3

The following passage is by the travel writer Eric Newby. In it he recalls a childhood trip to the exclusive department store Harrods, in London. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) Imagine that the same writer visits a place that you know well and records his impressions. Write the opening (between 120–150 words) of this new piece. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

‘Hold my hand tight, or you’ll get lost,’ my mother used to say, as she moved through the store, browsing here and there like some elegant ruminant1, a gazelle perhaps, or else walking more purposefully if she was on her way to some specific destination, as she often was. My mother was not the sort of person who only entered Harrods in order to shelter from the rain. Once she was in it, she was there as a potential buyer. This world, which I was forced to regard from what was practically floor level, was made up of the equivalents of jungles, savannas2, mountains, arctic wastes and even deserts. All that was lacking were seas and lakes and rivers, although at one time I distinctly remember there being some kind of fountain. The jungles were the lavish displays of silk and chiffon printed with exotic fruits and lush vegetation in which I was swallowed up as soon as I entered Piece Goods, on the ground floor, which made the real Flower Department seem slightly meagre by contrast. The biggest mountains were in the Food Halls, also on the ground floor, where towering ranges and isolated stacks of the stuff rose high above me, composed of farmhouse Cheddars, Stiltons, foie gras 3 in earthenware pots, tins of biscuits, something like thirty varieties of tea and at Christmas boxes of crackers with wonderful fillings (musical instruments that really worked, for instance), ten-pound puddings made with ale and rum and done up in white cloths. Some of these apparently stable massifs 4 were more stable than others and I once saw and heard with indescribable delight a whole display of tins of Scotch shortbread avalanche to the ground, making a most satisfactory noise. In the great vaulted hall, decorated with medieval hunting scenes, and with metal racks for hanging the trophies of it, where Harrods’s Fishmongers and Purveyors of Game and the assembled Butchers confronted one another across the central aisle. There were mountainous displays of crabs, scallops, Aberdeen smokes, turbot and halibut, Surrey fowls and game in season on one side; and on the other, regimental lines of Angus Beef, South Down Lamb and Mutton. The savannas were on the second floor, in Model Gowns, Model Coats and Model Costumes, endless expanses of carpet with here and there a solitary creation on a stand rising above it, like lone trees in a wilderness. To me unutterably tedious were the unending, snowy-white wastes of the Linen Hall, coloured bed linen, coloured blankets, even coloured bath towels, except for the ends (headings) which were sometimes decorated with blue or red stripes, being – if not unknown – unthinkable at that time (coloured blankets, usually red, were for ambulances and hospitals). In it articles were on sale that not even my mother was tempted to buy: tablecloths eight yards long to fit tables that could seat two dozen guests, sheets and blankets ten feet wide, specially made to fit the big, old four-poster beds still apparently being slept in by some customers.

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7 Higher still, on the third floor, were what I regarded as the deserts of the Furniture Departments. It took something like ten minutes to get around these vast, and to me as uninteresting as the Linen Hall, expanses, in which the distances between the individual pieces were measured in yards rather than feet. Notes: 1

ruminant : a grazing animal. savannas: grassy plains with few trees. 3 foie gras: an expensive meat delicacy. 4 massifs: mountain ranges. 2

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following text is the opening of an investigative report by the Chicago Tribune newspaper on the regulation of sales of dangerous children’s toys. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) Write the opening (between 120 and 150 words) of a similar report on an issue that you feel needs investigation. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original. [10]

Not until a boy died By: Patricia Callahan Tribune staff reporter May 6, 2007, Part 1 Part 1 of 2: A captive of industry, the Consumer Product Safety Commission lacks the authority and manpower to get dangerous child products off store shelves.

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Sharon Grigsby pleaded with the operator at the federal safety hot line. A popular new toy, Magnetix, nearly killed one of her preschoolers. Please do something, Grigsby remembers urging. When the plastic building sets broke, she told the operator, they shed powerful magnets inside her northern Indiana preschool. Grigsby didn’t see the loose magnets, not much bigger than baby aspirin. But one of her 5-year-old students did. He found some and swallowed them. The extraordinarily strong magnets connected in the boy’s digestive tract, squeezed the folds of his intestines and tore holes through his bowels. Only emergency surgery saved his life.

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If this product isn’t recalled, Grigsby remembers warning, children will die. The U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission responded with a form letter. “Because of limited resources and the volume of incidents reported to us, only a few complaints may be selected for follow-up investigation at this time,” stated the letter, which arrived a week after Grigsby’s May 2005 call to the hot line.

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If Grigsby’s complaint were important enough, the agency informed her, an investigator would call within 30 days. Thirty days went by, then another 30. No recall, no word from government investigators. The magnets that doctors removed from the preschooler’s intestines – corroded globs in a hospital specimen jar – sat in a drawer in Grigsby’s office waiting for an investigator to examine them. “I felt like I was pushed aside,” Grigsby said. “I thought I was helping the next family.” Precisely what she feared would happen did, six months later and more than 2,000 miles away.

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3 Kenny Sweet Jr., a suburban Seattle toddler with wispy blond hair, died from Magnetix injuries on Thanksgiving Day 2005. Kenny’s parents thought he had a stomach bug. By the time they realized something was seriously wrong, it was too late. His heart stopped within minutes of his arrival at the emergency room. But this is not a story about just one defective product and one family’s grief. A Tribune investigation found that Kenny Sweet’s death is emblematic of how a weakened federal agency, in its myopic1 and docile approach to regulation, fails to protect children. The result: injury and death. For instance, the safety agency waited years to respond to consumer and attorney complaints that soapmaking kits were landing children in hospital burn units. In the meantime, more kids suffered disfiguring injuries.

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The safety commission also recalled several types of playpens after they collapsed and suffocated babies. But the agency did not act on reports that yet another style of playpen posed the same hazard. It recalled those only after another baby suffocated. As the agency slowly moved to address dangers of Magnetix toys, injuries mounted. To date, at least 27 children have suffered serious intestinal injuries after swallowing loose Magnetix magnets. The Consumer Product Safety Commission, or CPSC, declined to explain why it didn’t act sooner on warnings about any of these unsafe children’s products. In refusing to answer questions about Magnetix, the agency cited a provision of federal law that protects manufacturers’ reputations.

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That law gives manufacturers great sway in how government officials regulate children’s products. Combined with skimpy budgets and reduced staffing, the provision undermines the agency’s power. The Reagan administration gutted the CPSC in the early 1980s, less than a decade after its inception. Bipartisan neglect2 since then has left the agency with fewer than half the number of employees it had in 1980 – deeper cuts than in any other federal health and safety regulator. Yet the number of products the CPSC oversees, everything from chain saws to baby cribs, has exploded. As consumers clamor for the latest high-tech toys and nursery gear at ever-cheaper prices, companies are offering more complex products that introduce new hazards. Childhood play always has come with risks. Parents expect skinned knees, even the occasional broken bone, from a fall off a bike or jungle gym. They don’t expect pieces from a broken toy to rip holes through a child’s gut like a gunshot, which is what happened with Magnetix.

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Notes: 1 2

myopic: short-sighted. bipartisan neglect: neglect by both main American political parties.

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4 2

The following text describes part of American writer Paul Theroux’s train journey across the Khyber Pass, from Afghanistan to Pakistan, in the 1970s. (a) Comment on the ways in which the language and style present the writer’s experiences. [15] (b) Continue the account (between 120 and 150 words), basing your answer closely on the style and language of the original. You do not have to bring the account to a close. [10]

I found a seat in the last car and watched a tribesman, who was almost certainly insane, quarrelling on the platform with some beggars.

Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

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Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

‘Well, I have a problem, and I am an old man, so I need some advice.’

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The following passage is a review of a hotel in Buenos Aires from the online website TripAdvisor. The review was written by guests, not by professional reviewers. (a) Comment on the language and style of the passage.

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(b) Imagine that you stay in a hotel where things go less well. Write a review of this stay (between 120 and 150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original piece. [10]

“Excellent small hotel, fine and helpful staff, clean and pleasant” Star rating: ***** Reviewed 1 week ago This is an excellent small hotel, with a fine staff, one that is helpful in all ways and very friendly. It has a rather good location in the Palermo district within a few blocks walking distance to a number of good restaurants, shops, etc. If you want the city center, this is not it, but if you want some peace and quiet, while at the same time you want good service, this is a place to consider. It has rooms in three categories, Terraza, Patio or Vitraux. We had a patio room on the entrance floor and found the room to be clean, the en suite bathroom to be of good size, the king bed to be very comfortable and the little patio nice for fresh air. WiFi is included so you can stay connected if you wish. Also included (at least at our room rate) is a rather nice breakfast. The breakfast includes a choice from many items and you can have whatever you want in whatever quantity. So, there are three choices of cereal, there is yogurt, there are egg choices, rolls, bread, juice, fruit, etc. All very attractive to look at and good to eat. The coffee is excellent (at least we thought so) and comes with steamed milk if you like it that way – you add the milk from a little pitcher. The little front desk is staffed 24 hours a day. Access to the hotel is only available by ringing the doorbell – you can’t just walk in. This enhances security and the bell is responded to typically within a minute. Just a bit of advice – there is no huge sign to identify the hotel. Work by the street address 1746 Julian Alvarez and when you arrive you will find a small sign on the wall of the building just to the left of the door. That is your indication that you are at the right place. Our driver was a bit concerned that we were in the wrong place, but the door opened and we were warmly welcomed. In fact, we arrived before normal check-in time after a long overnight flight and our room was ready. There are several staff members who rotate in their times of duty, but we found them all to be extremely helpful. We had communication with Alex by e-mail and he was also there to provide breakfast on several of the days we were there. He and the other staff speak English quite well and there was never any difficulty with communication. We also found the staff to be very helpful with recommendations for things. So, for example, we asked if there were reasonable (in terms of quality) restaurants nearby and we were asked what kind of food we might like and there then followed several suggestions. We tried a couple of them and found the descriptions to be accurate and the quality and prices to be as we were told in advance. The staff will make reservations for you, ask if credit cards are accepted, etc. The staff will also make reservations for a return ride to the airport for you (and confer with the driver in advance so that there is no surprise about the © UCLES 2016

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7 cost). For such a trip the staff will also confirm whether or not the fare can be in US dollars or Pesos. When the official exchange rate was 8.1 Pesos to the dollar, our ride for 300 pesos was paid with 30 US dollars, a 10–1 rate. Anyway, this is a fine place. If we are in Buenos Aires again and need a place in that general area of the city, I certainly would not search further, but would return to Magnolia for sure. We really liked it there. Room Tip: Entrance floor (patio) rooms may be the quietest. Stayed August 2014, travelled as a couple. This review is the subjective opinion of a TripAdvisor member and not of TripAdvisor LLC

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2 Answer two questions 1

The passage below is taken from John F. Kennedy’s first speech as President of the United States in 1960. (a) Comment on the speaker’s style and use of language.

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(b) Write a newspaper report (around 120 words) about this speech under the headline ‘A New Beginning’. [10]

So let us begin anew, remembering on both sides that civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerity is always subject to proof. Let us never negotiate out of fear, but let us never fear to negotiate. Let both sides explore what problems unite us instead of belabouring those problems which divide us. Let both sides, for the first time, formulate serious and precise proposals for the inspection and control of arms, and bring the absolute power to destroy other nations under the absolute control of all nations. Let both sides seek to invoke the wonders of science instead of its terrors. Together let us explore the stars, conquer the deserts, eradicate disease, tap the ocean depths and encourage the arts and commerce. Let both sides unite to heed in all corners of the earth the command of Isaiah to ‘undo the heavy burdens … [and] let the oppressed go free.’ And if a beachhead of cooperation may push back the jungle of suspicion, let both sides join in creating a new endeavour, not a new balance of power, but a new world of law, where the strong are just and the weak secure and the peace preserved. All this will not be finished in the first one hundred days. Nor will it be finished in the first one thousand days, nor in the life of this Administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet. But let us begin. In your hands, my fellow citizens, more than mine, will rest the final success or failure of our course. Since this country was founded, each generation of Americans has been summoned to give testimony to its national loyalty. The graves of young Americans who answered the call to service surround the globe. Now the trumpet summons us again – not as a call to bear arms, though arms we need; not as a call to battle, though embattled we are; but a call to bear the burden of a long twilight struggle, year in and year out, ‘rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation,’ a struggle against the common enemies of man: tyranny, poverty, disease and war itself. Can we forge against these enemies a grand and global alliance, North and South, East and West, that can assure a more fruitful life for all mankind? Will you join in that historic effort? In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility; I welcome it. I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavour will light our country and all who serve it, and the glow from that fire can truly light the world.

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3 2

The passage below appeared in a newspaper article by D. H. Lawrence, first published in August 1914. In it, at the beginning of the First World War, he describes a visit to an army training camp and considers the nature of mechanical warfare. (a) Comment on the writer’s style and use of language.

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(b) In the style of the original extract, write the opening to a magazine feature (around 120 words) called ‘The Machines Have Taken Over’. [10]

What work was there to do? – only mechanically to adjust the guns and fire the shot. What was there to feel? – only the unnatural suspense and suppression of serving a machine which, for aught we knew, was killing our fellow-men, whilst we stood there, blind, without knowledge or participation, subordinate to the cold machine. This was the glamour and the glory of the war: blue sky overhead and living green country all around, but we, amid it all, a part in some iron insensate will, our flesh and blood, our soul and intelligence shed away, and all that remained of us a cold, metallic adherence to an iron machine. There was neither ferocity nor joy nor exultation nor exhilaration nor even quick fear: only a mechanical, expressionless movement. And this is how the gunner would “let ’em have it.” He would mechanically move a certain apparatus when he heard a certain shout. Of the result he would see and know nothing. He had nothing to do with it. Then I remember going at night down a road, whilst the sound of guns thudded continuously. And suddenly I started, seeing the bank of the road stir. It was a mass of scarcely visible forms, lying waiting for a rush. They were lying under fire, silent, scarcely stirring, a mass. If one of the shells that were supposed to be coming had dropped among them it would have burst a hole in the mass. Who would have been torn, killed, no one would have known. There would just have been a hole in the living shadowy mass; that was all. Who it was did not matter. There were no individuals, and every individual soldier knew it. He was a fragment of a mass, and as a fragment of a mass he must live and die or be torn. He had no rights, no self, no being. There was only the mass lying there, solid and obscure along the bank of the road in the night. The night came on. Suddenly, on the other side, high up in the darkness, burst a beautiful greenish globe of light, and then came into being a magic circle of countryside set in darkness, a greenish jewel of landscape, splendid bulk of trees, a green meadow, vivid. The ball fell and it was dark, and in one’s eye remained treasured the little vision that had appeared far off in the darkness. Then again a light ball burst and sloped down. There was the white farm house with the wooden, slanting roof, the green apple trees, the orchard paling, a jewel, a landscape set deep in the darkness. It was beautiful beyond belief. Then it was dark. Then the searchlights suddenly sprang upon the countryside, revealing the magic, fingering everything with magic, pushing the darkness aside, showing the lovely hillsides, the sable bulks of trees, the pallor of corn. A searchlight was creeping at us. It slid up our hill. It was upon us; we turned our backs to it, it was unendurable. Then it was gone. Then out of a little wood at the foot of the hill came the intolerable crackling and bursting of rifles. The men in the trenches returned fire. Nothing could be seen. I thought of the bullets that would find their marks. But whose bullets? And what mark. Why must I fire off my gun in the darkness towards a noise? Why must a bullet come out of the darkness, breaking a hole in me? But better a bullet than the laceration of a shell, if it came to dying. But what is it all about? I cannot understand; I am not to understand. My God, why am I a man at all, when this is all, this machinery piercing and tearing? 8693/1/O/N/02

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The passage below describes how Merv Hector, an Australian bus driver, seems to live in a dream world – until his contentment is shattered by an accident. (a) Comment on the writer’s style and use of language.

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(b) This passage is written as if it is Merv, the bus driver, thinking. Imagine that Ron, the conductor, is telling his version of events in the same way. Write the opening (around 120 words) of Ron’s account. [10]

Breaking into light, this long silver bus. It comes rumbling from its concrete pen. Grunting away. It reaches North Terrace by stopping and yawning; its full length swings. Yawns left, climbs past Rosella, hesitates at Maid’n’Magpie, take the left, roads are empty, petrol stations are empty, car yards are empty, shops are empty, hold her steady, chassis doesn’t pitch then, there are couples behind curtains, there’s a dog, watch him, man on a bike, shiftworker in a coat probably. Now the road’s stirring, milkman turns a corner, leaves the road open, driver taps the steering wheel rim, enormous view of life in the morning, foot taps contented by it. The bus had PARADISE printed on the front, sides and back. It was a long run to the suburb. At the outer reaches it specialised in young married women with prams; and Merv Hector had to smile. From his position in the driving seat he could see the new generation hairdos, skirts, worried eyebrows. Gentle, sloweyed Hector waited for them, was happy to be of service. When one of them waved between stops he could stop the great silver machine every time. His conductors were quick to see they were riding with a soft heart. Straightforward characters, they were quick to assert themselves. ‘Be an angel, Merv. Stop at the shops there for some smokes.’ They also went to him when sick of things. This time his conductor was Ron. His voice, tightly pitched. ‘Getting up at this hour really makes me wonder. We’re not carrying a soul. Look, it really makes me sick.’ Merv shook his head. Through the pure windscreen the road was alive ahead of him. Below his feet the bus was really travelling. It made you feel alive. ‘There’s the people we get on the way back,’ Merv said. He made a long sentence of it, as he did when contented, and heard Ron’s breath come out dissatisfied. ‘There’s too bloody many then. We should have two here serving then. All the school kids; they never have to pay properly. What time is it?’ They were entering Paradise. As usual Hector waited to be thrilled by it, he stared and was ready, but a disappointment spread like the morning shadows. Streets were golden but it seemed more like a finishing sunset than the beginning of the day. When he stopped the bus it seemed to be further away – Paradise did. New tiles pointing in the sky spoilt the purity. But Paradise could be close by. It felt close by. The air light, bright; he was at the edge of something. Hector’s stubborn fifty-four year old eyesight produced these messages for this heart but he was required to turn the bus, and he turned the bus around. ‘Hell, we’re going to really get hot and crowded.’ It was Ron running his finger around his collar. ‘She’ll be right,’ said Hector. ‘Hang on a sec. Let us out at the shop. You want some chewy?’ Stopped. Merv Hector was milk cheese from Norwood. At the M.T.T.1 he was considered slow and forgetful. But he was dependable enough, and voiced no objections to the long early morning runs. His moon wife was stupefied by his sincerity. He was older. Their garden grew weeds. His watch was inaccurate, and he stumbled near the garden. ‘Dear?’ he sometimes said to Enid and faded out. 8693/1/O/N/02

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5 The distance to Paradise, with the great screen framing all kinds of life, gave him this gentle advice: move, slow down, stop, let them get on, move, see, Paradise. The world was beautiful. It was plainly visible. Now Ron said something again. ‘Look at all the bloody kids. Just what I need. All right! Move down the back!’ 50 The bus grew squatter and fatter with the weight of everybody. Ron battled through, and the air was hot and human. They were now channelled by houses near the city, yet it was confusing. A green bread van turned while Merv wondered. The shape was smacked by the metal at Merv’s feet and the whole green turned over and over like a dying 55 insect, a round pole came zooming forward. Hector’s world entered it and splintered. Glass splattered. A crying uniform over Hector’s shoulder cracked the windscreen. There was the crash, Hector remembered. And the memory of Paradise persisted. If there was a beautiful place he could watch for like that. 60 He was wrinkling and gave a twitch. 1

The local bus depot

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2 Answer two questions 1

The passage below describes the writer’s thoughts and feelings as he recalls his attempts to help an injured woman after a bomb attack. (a) You yourself are a survivor of a similar disastrous road accident. In the style of the original passage write the opening of your account (between 120–150 words). [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original extract.

We dug, or rather we pushed, pulled, heaved, and strained, I somewhat ineffectually because of my hands; I don’t know for how long, but I suppose for a short enough while. And yet it seemed endless. From time to time I was aware of figures round me: an ARP warden, his face expressionless under a steel helmet; once a soldier swearing savagely in a quiet monotone; and the taxi-driver, his face pouring sweat. And so we came to the woman. It was her feet that we saw first, and whereas before we had worked doggedly, now we worked with a sort of frenzy, like prospectors at the first glint of gold. She was not quite buried, and through the gap between two beams we could see that she was still alive. We got the child out first. It was passed back carefully and with an odd sort of reverence by the warden, but it was dead. She must have been holding it to her in the bed when the bomb came. Finally we made a gap wide enough for the bed to be drawn out. The woman who lay there looked middle-aged. She lay on her back and her eyes were closed. Her face, through the dirt and streaked blood, was the face of a thousand working women; her body under the cotton nightdress was heavy. The nightdress was drawn up to her knees and one leg was twisted under her. There was no dignity about that figure. Around me I heard voices. ‘Where’s the ambulance?’ ‘For Christ’s sake don’t move her!’ ‘Let her have some air!’ I was at the head of the bed, and looking down into that tired, blood-streaked, work-worn face I had a sense of complete unreality. I took the brandy flask from my hip pocket and held it to her lips. Most of it ran down her chin but a little flowed between those clenched teeth. She opened her eyes and reached out her arms instinctively for the child. Then she started to weep. Quite soundlessly, and with no sobbing, the tears were running down her cheeks when she lifted her eyes to mine. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, and took my hand in hers. And then, looking at me again, she said after a pause, ‘I see they got you too.’ Very carefully I screwed the top on to the brandy flask, unscrewed it once, and screwed it on again, for I had caught it on the wrong thread. I put the flask into my hip pocket and did up the button. I pulled across the buckle on my great-coat and noticed that I was dripping with sweat. I pulled the cap down over my eyes and walked out into the street. Someone caught me by the arm, I think it was the soldier with the girl, and said: ‘You’d better take some of that brandy yourself. You don’t look too good’; but I shook him off. With difficulty I kept my pace to a walk, forcing myself not to run. For I wanted to run, to run anywhere away from that scene, from myself, from the terror that was inside me, the terror of something that was about to happen and which I had not the power to stop. It started small, small but insistent deep inside of me, sharp as a needle, then welling up uncontrollable, spurting, flowing over, choking me. I was drowning, helpless in a rage that caught and twisted and hurled me on, mouthing in a blind unthinking frenzy. I heard myself cursing, the words pouring out, shrill, meaningless, and as my mind cleared a little I knew that it was the woman I cursed. Yes, the 8693/1 O/N/03

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3 woman that I reviled, hating her that she should die like that for me to see, loathing that silly bloody twisted face that had said those words: ‘I see they got you too.’ That she should have spoken to me, why, oh Christ, to me? Could she not have died the next night, ten minutes later, or in the next street? Could she not have died without speaking, without raising those cow eyes to mine? ‘I see they got you too.’ All humanity had been in those few words, and I had cursed her. Slowly the frenzy died in me, the rage oozed out of me, leaving me cold, shivering and bitterly ashamed. I had cursed her, cursed her, I realized as I grew calmer, for she had been the one thing that my rage surging uncontrollably had had to fasten on, the one thing to which my mind, overwhelmed by the sense of something so huge and beyond the range of thought, could cling. Her death was unjust, a crime, an outrage, a sin against mankind – weak inadequate words which even as they passed through my mind mocked me with their futility.

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The passage below describes the writer’s feelings as he travels across China to the most distant point of the Great Wall. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) A luxury travel company wants to encourage tourists to visit China, especially the remoter parts. Basing your answer closely on the extract, write the text for the advertisem*nt in a positive and persuasive manner (between 120–150 words). [10]

Only a couple of days later, walking to the platform at Beijing station, do I get scared. It is dark. I am heading for a door labelled ‘Civilisation – Exit’. The cosy soundtrack of the metropolis is switching to silent. Urine simmers above the tracks; the stench of the provinces. Through the bars of motionless trains appear wild, staring eyes and uncut thatches of hair. To pass beyond the shelter of the Great Wall, they say, is to lose the protection of China itself. Perhaps I am getting carried away. Inside my carriage, things look fine. Instead of sand-demons and barbarian nomads, I see funky green night-lights and electronic screens announcing customer information. My fellow-travellers are young urbanites from Beijing – more men in suits – carrying tea-supplies in personal vacuum flasks of stainless steel. We all go to bed and sleep soundly. Only the light of dawn brings any sense of movement. Outside, the layered hills of north China are vanishing in the mist. The terraces here are barely wide enough to turn a mule on. Hamlets of houses groan under heavy ceramic roof-tiles and suggestions of flying eaves. But when I tell the urbanites that I find the scenery attractive they murmur, incredulously, among themselves (‘He calls this attractive?’). I deny nothing. Later, walking down the train corridor, I see people in bed, eating breakfast, helping their children dress. They look embarrassed, as though I have blundered into the collective bedroom of the Chinese people. Are they becoming bourgeois? My own rucksack looks shabby beside their executive luggage with wheels and pull-out handles. Out there, meanwhile, a fog is invading the ancient gullies and fissures of the plateau of Shanxi Province. Through these dry hills, I know, cuts the Yellow River, the life-blood of ancient China. I see piles of yellow maize drying on rooftops, donkeys ploughing, peasants in headscarves stacking wheat. At Xi’an, later in the day, all the men wearing ties and carrying stainless steel vacuum flasks, abandon the train. ‘Have fun out west!’ they say, bolting for the door. From now on, it’s just us: the peasants, rolling on into China’s wild places. A newcomer with an accidental moustache and vertical hair is stashing bags of meat and bread under the window-table. He keeps his tea in a jam jar. A boy has a musical cicada in a bamboo case. A student with foppish hair asks insistent questions while peeling pears with meticulous concern. How many people am I travelling with? Why do I travel? How can I afford it? How often do I do this kind of trip? When I ask what he does for fun, he tells me: ‘I’m into cricket-fighting. You know? Insects. My cricket against yours. We bet on the winner. The loser runs away, or gets eaten.’ We spend hours lying about like Buddhas in our bunks, staring at a winding gorge, dun-coloured villages, and weather-stained cliff faces. From time to time, I glimpse sections of the Great Wall, ramparts of crumbling earth, barely detectable ridges and bumps in the dust. Not until late on the second day, at Jiayuguan, do I finally leave the train. I am nearing the end of the Wall here, nearing the last towers and broken forts of ancient China. Under icy clouds, I walk an empty street into town. Jiayuguan (I soon see) may be trying to escape its primordial bleakness. Daubed onto walls are exhortations to the masses written in big, child-like characters: ‘Please be graceful and keep order!’ 8693/1 O/N/03

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5 ‘Push the Western Region to the forefront of modernisation!’ ‘Strive to be the eminent tourist city of China!’ But I only have one thing to do here, namely, to walk past the willow trees to the Impregnable Fort Under Heaven. In the morning I soon find it, a few miles away, in the desert, guarding the gap between the Qilian and Mazong Mountains: brown walls, pale against a now blue sky. Up close, its four-square brick ramparts grow temporarily imposing. But from a distance it dwindles once again in the face of the natural elements. I see a 14thcentury gate; a picturesque place to say goodbye; a fort on a Chinese Maginot Line. The last outpost of civilisation? The Ming, who built it, certainly saw it as the end of the road. Within its quiet enclosures, I wander about: here is a popular theatre, here are generals’ homes and temples. Evidence that men tried to enjoy themselves. To judge by the fort’s triple towers, rising like flowers from the desert floor, I think of them as Ming romantics. They have created a worthy backdrop for the leave-takings of China’s saddest exiles. North of here the black plain of the Gobi stretches away for ever. Not that the Impregnable Fort Under Heaven really was the last place in ancient China. The Han Great Wall, after all – built 1,400 years earlier than the Ming – extended further still: to Jade Gate Pass itself.

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The passage below is taken from a story of suspense. (a) In the style of the passage, continue the story (between 120–150 words).

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(b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original.

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The cabin had been abandoned for several years, which was why the rent was within her single-parent budget. A faded ‘For Sale’ sign hung crookedly on a tree outside, mutely pleading for new owners. It was not far from a small town, but the access road, eleven miles of deeply rutted, treacherous trail, had probably discouraged buyers. Around the cabin the weeds were waist high, and she had to carry the fouryear-old as they struggled down to the beach. A patch of scorched earth marked a firepit, and a picnic table stood nearby, almost hidden in a thick stand of purple fireweed. ‘Mummy?’ Jenny’s voice, usually strident with first-grade exuberance, was soft, timid. ‘Do we have to stay in this place? I don’t think I like it here.’ ‘Nonsense, Jen. It’s just overgrown, lonely. No one has taken care of it for a long time. We’ll clear a nice path down to the beach – see, there is a bit of a path under the weeds – then it will be easier for you to walk. We can build a campfire tonight and have hot dogs and marshmallows. It will be fun!’ She smiled at the child, wondering why her own voice had sounded so loud and harsh. The beach was beautiful; sandy and shallow for a long way out and nestled in a small cove that kept the water calm and warm. While the children splashed and searched for frogs, she began clearing the trail with a rusty, but still serviceable sickle she found near the picnic table. Once, stopping work to wipe the sweat from her eyes and to check on the children, she glanced up at the hillside behind her and saw, almost hidden among tall cedars, the dark bulk of another, larger, cabin. Curious, for no one had mentioned a second place close by, she called to the girls to stay out of the water until she came back, and pushed through the deep undergrowth on the hillside towards the hidden cabin. It was large, built of grey-weathered logs, and surrounded by a wooden porch with a low railing. As she got closer, she could see that it was obviously deserted, and had been for a long time. The windows were boarded over with plywood, the steps to the front porch were pushed askew by saplings that nudged the foundation, and two solid planks were nailed, cross-like, over the front door. Oddly disappointed, she turned, and began the downward climb. As she walked, she realised why the large cabin had been built so far away from the water. The view was spectacular. She could see far across the lake, around a bend in the shore, to where a solitary mountain, still snow-capped in July, reared distantly through the heat haze. Below her the lake threw off slices of sunlight, and she could see her children digging intently in the sand. Of her own cabin, she glimpsed only the roof and her bedroom window through the trees. In the evening, sunburned and exhausted, the girls again crawled into bed early. She made herself a cup of tea and with it walked down the now cleared path to the beach, admiring her handiwork. She stayed until the sun began to set, watching the coloured rays slant off the water, then, tired herself, she made her way back up the trail. When she reached the cabin, both children were crying. She ran to their room, stopping abruptly as a large grey rat sitting between the two beds slowly turned, stared at her for a moment with basalt eyes, then scurried between her legs and out the door.

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2 Answer two questions 1

In the passage below the writer describes his travels in Southern Arabia and how he shared the experiences of his travelling companions from the Bedu people. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) A publisher has asked you to write the ‘blurb’ (information about the content and style of the book on the back or inside cover) for the writer’s forthcoming work Journeys Through Southern Arabia. Basing your answer closely on the extract, write the ‘blurb’ (between 120–150 words). [10] They were miserable days. It was maddening to ride along drenched to the skin and watch the driving rain soak into the sand, for although I was bitterly cold I was also thirsty. We had no idea where we should find more water, and were again rationing ourselves to a pint a day. We had nothing with us, except a few small pots, in which to catch the rain, not that we could afford the time to stop. My companions were worried about the camels, and warned me that we might wake up any morning and find some of them dead, killed in their weakened state by the ulcers which were eating into them. Each morning I looked anxiously to see if they were still alive. One night there was a terrific storm, which started soon after dark and revolved around us until dawn. On that bare plain there was no sort of shelter. We could only lie cowering on the ground while the lightning slashed through the darkness of driven clouds, and the thunder crashed about our ears. I had placed my rug and sheepskin over my sleeping-bag. On other nights these had kept me fairly dry, but tonight the weight of water was too great to be turned aside. It flowed over me like an icy torrent. Sometimes the rain stopped and I peered out to see, silhouetted against the night by the almost continuous flashes of lightning, the dark shapes where the others lay beneath their coverings, like grave-mounds on a wet seashore; and the group of sodden animals, squatting tail to storm. Then I would hear the muffled drumming of the rain as it came down once more. I was certain that some of our camels would die that night, but in the morning they were still alive. Next day was fine and sunny and our spirits rose as the sun dried our clothes and warmed our bodies. My companions sang as we rode across sands which looked as if they had been uncovered by an outgoing tide. They were Bedu and it had rained, not scattered showers, but downpours which might well have covered all the desert. ‘God’s bounty’ they called it, and rejoiced at the prospect of rich grazing that would last for years. As I rode across these interminable naked sands it seemed incredible that in three months’ time they would be covered with flowering shrubs. Eskimos enduring the cold and the darkness of the arctic winter can count the days till the sun appears, but here in southern Arabia the Bedu have no certainty of spring. Often there is no rain, and even if there is, it may fall at any time of the year. Generally the bitter winters turn to blazing summers over a parched and lifeless land. Bin Kabina told me now that he only remembered three springs in his life. Occasional springtimes such as these were all the Bedu ever knew of the gentleness of life. A few years’ relief from the anxiety of want was the most they ever hoped for. It seemed to me pathetically little and yet I knew that it was magnificently enough. As we rode along, the others spoke of years when it had rained, and bin Kabina told me that never in his life had he known such rain as this. Then inevitably they spoke of the great flood in Dhaufar of sixty years ago. I had myself seen palm-trunks which had been jammed by this flood eighteen feet up among the rocks in the cliffs of the Wadi Aidam, where the valley was more than a thousand yards wide. We speculated as to how many days it must have rained to produce this flood, which had occurred in summer when it was warm. I wondered how long a man could survive such rain in winter before he died of exposure. It rained again in the evening and continued to do so intermittently for the next three days. © UCLES 2004

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3 2

The passage below is the closing section of a speech by Nelson Mandela. (a) In the style of the original piece, write the opening to a speech (between 120–150 words) in which you campaign for a particular social or moral issue. [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original extract.

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Poverty and the breakdown of family life have secondary effects. Children wander about the streets of the townships because they have no schools to go to, or no money to enable them to go to school, or no parents at home to see that they go to school, because both parents (if there be two) have to work to keep the family alive. This leads to a breakdown in moral standards, to an alarming rise in illegitimacy, and to growing violence which erupts not only politically, but everywhere. Life in the townships is dangerous. There is not a day that goes by without somebody being stabbed or assaulted. And violence is carried out of the townships in the white living areas. People are afraid to walk alone in the streets after dark. Housebreakings and robberies are increasing, despite the fact that the death sentence can now be imposed for such offences. Death sentences cannot cure the festering sore. Africans want to be paid a living wage. Africans want to perform work which they are capable of doing, and not work which the Government declares them to be capable of. Africans want to be allowed to live where they obtain work, and not be endorsed out of an area because they were not born there. Africans want to be allowed to own land in places where they work, and not to be obliged to live in rented houses which they can never call their own. Africans want to be part of the general population, and not confined to living in their own ghettoes. African men want to have their wives and children to live with them where they work, and not be forced into an unnatural existence in men’s hostels. African women want to be with their menfolk and not be left permanently widowed in the Reserves. Africans want to be allowed out after eleven o’clock at night and not to be confined to their rooms like little children. Africans want to be allowed to travel in their own country and to seek work where they want to and not where the Labour Bureau tells them to. Africans want a just share in the whole of South Africa; they want security and a stake in society.

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Above all, we want equal political rights, because without them our disabilities will be permanent. I know this sounds revolutionary to the whites in this country, because the majority of voters will be Africans. This makes the white man fear democracy. But this fear cannot be allowed to stand in the way of the only solution which will guarantee racial harmony and freedom for all. It is not true that the enfranchisem*nt of all will result in racial domination. Political division, based on colour, is entirely artificial and, when it disappears, so will the domination of one colour group by another. The ANC has spent half a century fighting against racialism. When it triumphs it will not change that policy.

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This then is what the ANC is fighting. Their struggle is a truly national one. It is a struggle of the African people, inspired by their own suffering and their own experience. It is a struggle for the right to live. During my lifetime I have dedicated myself to this struggle of the African people. I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die. © UCLES 2004

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The passage below is an extract from an essay which describes a popular tourist attraction. (a) The local tourist board has published a leaflet to promote the hill of Mercury in an effort to persuade visitors of its attractiveness and facilities. Basing your answer closely on the extract, write the opening section of the leaflet (between 120–150 words). [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original extract. It was Sunday, and very hot. The holiday-makers flocked to the hill of Mercury, to rise two thousand feet above the steamy haze of the valleys. For the summer had been very wet, and the heat covered the land in hot steam. Every time it made the ascent, the funicular1 was crowded. It hauled itself up the steep incline, that towards the top looked almost perpendicular, the steel thread of the rails in the gulf of pine-trees hanging like an iron rope against a wall. The women held their breath, and didn’t look. Or they looked back towards the sinking levels of the river, steamed and dim, far-stretching over the frontier. When you arrived at the top there was nothing to do. The hill was a pinecovered cone; paths wound between the high tree-trunks, and you could walk round and see the glimpses of the world all round, all round: the dim, far river-plain, with a dull glint of the great stream, to westwards; southwards, the black, forest-covered, agile-looking hills, with emerald-green clearings and a white house or two; east, the inner valley, with two villages, factory chimneys, pointed churches and hills beyond; and north, the steep hills of forest, with reddish crags and reddish castle ruins. The hot sun burned overhead, and all was in steam. Only on the very summit of the hill there was a tower, an outlook tower; a long restaurant with its beer-garden, all the little yellow tables standing their round disks under the horse-chestnut trees; then a bit of rock-garden on the slope. But the great trees began again in wilderness a few yards off. The Sunday crowd came up in waves from the funicular. In waves they ebbed through the beer-garden. But not many sat down to drink. Nobody was spending any money. Some paid to go up the outlook tower, to look down on a world of vapours and black, agile-crouching hills, and half-crooked towns. Then everybody dispersed along the paths, to sit among the trees in the cool air. There was not a breath of wind. Lying and looking upwards at the shaggy, barbaric middle-world of the pine-trees, it was difficult to decide whether the pure high trunks supported the upper thicket of darkness, or whether they descended from it like great cords stretched downwards. Anyhow, in between the tree-top world and the earth-world went the wonderful clean cords of innumerable proud treetrunks, clear as rain. And as you watched, you saw that the upper world was faintly moving, faintly, most faintly swaying, with a circular movement, though the lower trunks were utterly motionless and monolithic. There was nothing to do. In all the world, there was nothing to do, and nothing to be done. Why have we all come to the top of the Merkur? There is nothing for us to do. What matter? We have come a stride beyond the world. Let it steam and cook its half-baked reality below there. On the hill of Mercury we take no notice. Even we do not trouble to wander and pick the fat, blue, sourish bilberries. Just lie and see the rain-pure tree-trunks like chords of music between two worlds. The hours pass by: people wander and disappear and reappear. All is hot and quiet. Humanity is rarely boisterous any more. You go for a drink: finches run among the few people at the tables: everybody glances at everybody, but with remoteness. There is nothing to do but to return and lie down under the pine trees. Nothing to do. But why do anything, anyhow? The desire to do anything has gone. The treetrunks, living like rain, they are quite active enough. 1funicular – cable-car railway

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Copyright Acknowledgements: Question 1

Curtis Brown on behalf of Sir Wilfred Thesiger. Copyright © Sir Wilfred Thesiger 1959, 1964 and 1997.

Cambridge International Examinations has made every effort to trace copyright holders, but if we have inadvertently overlooked any we will be pleased to make the necessary arrangements at the first opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES) which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

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2 Answer two questions 1

The passage below describes how the writer managed to obtain accommodation at a time when he was tired and anxious. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later that night the woman in the extract records in her diary her account of the evening’s events and the writer’s behaviour. Basing your answer closely on the extract, write her account (between 120 and 150 words). [10] I stood under a lamp and looked round at the uninviting rows of cottages and ill-lit dingy shops without much hope. I should get accommodation somewhere; I had never failed yet. But it was such an effort to get my tired legs in motion again and start my search. There were groups of people everywhere; young fellows and girls laughing and joking on the pavements; elderly parties loaded with parcels, gossiping in a language I could not understand; shouting, excited children. Not one of these, I told myself as I pushed between them, had a concern for the night’s shelter: I was friendless and alone. As events turned out, I could have spared myself these miserable forebodings. There was a Good Samaritan in the town, and destiny directed my faltering steps to her front door. I made my wants known to her, and reluctantly she had to deny me, for friends of her daughter were staying there for the weekend. I thanked her, and went slowly away; slowly, because I could see she was hesitant and was watching me as I moved away along the street. She called me back, as I hoped she would; the house was plain and unprepossessing, but the next might be worse. But again I was disappointed. She thought hard how she could oblige me, and I waited silently for her decision. No, she said at length, she was sorry, very sorry, but she was afraid it was out of the question. Ah well, I replied, and slung my rucksack over my shoulder with a gesture of despair. I was artful now, and cunning: I could see the woman was in some distress at having to turn me away, and the thought of having to go through all the overtures again at another front door made me all the more determined to get in here somehow. Ah well, I said again, with a sigh which must just have been perceptible to her; I supposed I would get shelter somewhere in the town. I gave her a brave grin, which I hoped she would perceive as forced, and limped away more slowly than ever. She called me back again, told me to come in; she would arrange for the girls to sleep together. Once inside, and seated by the big fire in the kitchen with my shoes off, I would not have budged even if it meant the whole family sleeping in a row on the rug. My despondency vanished, snatched from me by the roaring flames and whirled up the chimney and out into the inhospitable darkness of the night. It was half-past eight when I entered, feeling ready for bed, but it was long after midnight before I went upstairs. There never was a busier hive of activity than this warm kitchen on this particular evening. I was not left to brood quietly by myself; instead, I sat and witnessed a succession of events, a parade of faces, which bewildered me and made me forget my own troubles.

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4 2

The passage below is an appreciation of the actor Katherine Hepburn. (a) Basing your answer closely on the passage, write an appreciation (between 120 and 150 words) of another celebrity (alive or dead). [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original extract.

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Hollywood Loses a Legend Four-time Oscar winner Katherine Hepburn – the 20th century’s most celebrated screen actress, one-half of the century’s most storied offscreen love story and an enduring role model for generations of women – died on the afternoon of June 29. She was 96. “Acting is the most minor of gifts,” Hepburn once observed. “After all, Shirley Temple could do it when she was four.”

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But if Hepburn was being famously practical, she also was being famously modest. For all her professional life, Hepburn was the Academy Awards’ gold standard. She set the record for most acting nominations, 12, a mark eclipsed this year by Meryl Streep. And she set the as-yet unsurpassed record for acting wins, four. 10 She took Best Actress awards for 1933’s Morning Glory, 1967’s Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, 1968’s The Lion in Winter and 1981’s On Golden Pond. Never one for Hollywood schmoozing, Hepburn accepted not one of those Oscars in person. In fact, she attended the Academy Awards ceremony just once. In all, she appeared in 58 films and TV-movies. Nine of those films were shared bills with 15 Spencer Tracy, her real-life lover of 25 years. “He was a baked potato: solid, and you can have them without salt and pepper or butter. I was a fancy dessert: mocha-chip ice cream,” Hepburn once remarked of their relationship. Onscreen, Tracy and Hepburn crackled in genre-defining romantic comedies such 20 as Woman of the Year (1942) and Adam’s Rib (1949). Their pairing guaranteed a fair-fight-style battle of the sexes. In a Tracy-Hepburn film, she wore pants, too. Offscreen, their chemistry was just as strong. Hepburn and Tracy met on the set of Woman of the Year. He was a fortysomething, two-time Oscar winner. She was a thirtysomething, one-time Oscar winner. She wore heels at their first confab. He 25 promised to cut her down to size. There were complications, the biggest of which was his marriage: Tracy had a wife and two kids. Mrs. Tracy was a Catholic who didn’t believe in divorce. And so, Mr. Tracy was a married man who never divorced. Not that his social life suffered. Hepburn and Tracy were Hollywood’s most married unmarried couple until his death 30 in 1967, days after they completed work on Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, the socially minded race drama that brought Tracy his ninth (and final) Best Actor Oscar nomination and Hepburn her second Best Actress statue. A prototype of the thoroughly modern girl, Hepburn never apologized for her love of another woman’s husband. She never gushed about it, either. Kate was Kate. 35

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5 Ever blunt, Hepburn once said of her early ambition: “I didn’t have any desire to be an actress or to learn how to act. I just wanted to be famous.” Apparently to help ensure success, the resourceful Hepburn slashed two-and-half years off her age, passing herself off to studio execs, columnists and biographers as being born in November 1909. It was a fib she perpetuated for more than 50 years. 40 Of undeniable fact is that Hepburn made her film debut in 1932, in the melodrama A Bill of Divorcement. A year later she had the Oscar for Morning Glory. But what came fast, went almost as fast. A string of flops (chiefly, 1935’s cross-dressing Sylvia Scarlett ) and a notorious Broadway bomb (1934’s The Lake, which prompted wit Dorothy Parker to crack, 45 “Miss Hepburn runs the gamut of emotions from A to B.”), had her courting the dreaded “box-office poison” label. Undeterred, Hepburn used a hands-on approach with the comedy The Philadelphia Story. The role of icy socialite Tracy Lord was one she’d originated on Broadway. Hepburn again purchased the film rights – and, in the process, bought herself 50 another classic screen role. Few films have matched Philadelphia Story’s star troika of Hepburn, Grant (as the ex-husband who wants her back) and Jimmy Stewart (as the reporter who plain wants her). Hepburn worked steadily through the early 1960s, when she declined roles to care 55 for the increasingly frail Tracy. By the time cameras rolled on Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner in 1967, she’d been away from the big screen for five years. Following Tracy’s death, she returned to Broadway to unleash her distinctive, quasisinging voice on audiences in Coco, about designer Coco Chanel. For her spunk and usual gall, she received a Tony Award nomination. 60 Hepburn’s work ethic never wavered. She won her fourth Oscar at age 73 for On Golden Pond, which paired her with contemporary Henry Fonda in his final film.

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The passage below describes the character and behaviour of a teacher nicknamed ‘Crabby’ by her students. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The teacher has to write two reports a year on each of her students. Basing your answer closely on the material in the extract, write her first report (between 60 and 75 words) on Spadge Hopkins written before the incident that day: then write her second report (between 60 and 75 words) on him produced some time after the incident. [10] For school in my day, that day, Crabby’s day, seemed to be designed simply to keep us out of the air and from following the normal pursuits of the fields. Crabby’s science of dates and sums and writing seemed a typical invention of her own, a sour form of fiddling or prison-labour like picking oakum or sewing sacks. So while the bright times passed, we sat locked in our stocks, our bent backs turned on the valley. The June air infected us with primitive hungers, grass-seed and thistle-down idled through the windows, we smelt the fields and were tormented by cuckoos, while every out-of-door sound that came drifting in was a sharp nudge in the solar plexus. The creaking of wagons going past the school, harness-jingle, and the cries of the carters, the calling of cows from the 17-Acre, Fletcher’s chattering mower, gunshot from the warrens – all tugged and pulled at our active wishes till we could have done Miss B a murder. And indeed there came the inevitable day when rebellion raised its standard, when the tension was broken and a hero emerged whom we would willingly have named streets after. At least, from that day his name was honoured, though we gave him little support at the time … Spadge Hopkins it was, and I must say we were surprised. He was one of those heavy, full-grown boys, thick-legged, red-fisted, bursting with flesh, designed for the great outdoors. He was nearly fourteen by then, and physically out of scale – at least so far as our school was concerned. The sight of him squeezed into his tiny desk was worse than a bullock in ballet-shoes. He wasn’t much of a scholar; he groaned as he worked, or hacked at his desk with a jack-knife. Miss B took her pleasure in goading him, in forcing him to read out loud; or asking him sudden unintelligible questions which made him flush and stumble. The great day came; a day of shimmering summer, with the valley outside in a state of leafy levitation. Crabby B was at her sourest, and Spadge Hopkins had had enough. He began to writhe in his desk, and roll his eyes, and kick with his boots, and mutter; ‘She’d better look out. ’Er, – Crabby B. She’d better, that’s all. I can tell you …’ We didn’t quite know what the matter was, in spite of his meaning looks. Then he threw down his pen, said; ‘Sod it all,’ got up, and walked to the door. ‘And where are you going, young man, may I ask?’ said Crabby with her awful leer. Spadge paused and looked her straight in the eye. ‘If it’s any business of yourn.’ We shivered with pleasure at this defiance, Spadge leisurely made for the door. ‘Sit down this instant!’ Crabby suddenly screamed. ‘I won’t have it!’ ‘Ta-ta,’ said Spadge. Then Crabby sprang like a yellow cat, spitting and clawing with rage. She caught Spadge in the doorway and fell upon him. There was a shameful moment of heavy breathing and scuffling, while the teacher tore at his clothes. Spadge caught her hands in his great red fists and held her at arm’s length, struggling.

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7 ‘Come and help me, someone!’ wailed Crabby, demented. But nobody moved; we just watched. We saw Spadge lift her up and place her on the top of the cupboard, then walk out of the door and away. There was a moment of silence, then 45 we all laid down our pens and began to stamp on the floor in unison. Crabby stayed where she was, on top of the cupboard, drumming her heels and weeping. We expected some terrible retribution to follow, but nothing happened at all. Not even the trouble-spark, Spadge, was called to account – he was simply left alone. From that day Crabby never spoke to him, or crossed his path, or denied him 50 anything at all. He perched idly in his desk, his knees up to his chin, whistling in a world of his own. Sometimes Miss B would consider him narrowly and if he caught her glance he just winked. Otherwise he was free to come and go, and to take time off as he pleased.

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2 Answer two questions.

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The passage below introduces a character called Loretta. She is in love – but not necessarily with anyone else. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Loretta’s friend, Rita, keeps a diary. In it, she records her impressions of Loretta. Basing your answer closely on the material of the passage, write her diary entry (between 120 and 150 words). [10]

One warm evening in August 1937 a girl in love stood before a mirror. Her name was Loretta. It was her reflection in the mirror she loved, and out of this dreamy, pleasing love there arose a sense of excitement that was restless and blind – which way would it move, what would happen? Her name was Loretta; she was pleased with that name too, though Loretta Botsford pleased her less. Her 5 last name dragged down on her, it had no melody. She stood squinting into the plastic-rimmed mirror on her bureau, trying to get the best of the light, seeing inside her rather high-colored, healthy, ordinary prettiness a hint of something daring and dangerous. Looking into the mirror was like looking into the future; everything was there, waiting. It was not just that face she loved. She loved other things. During the 10 week she worked at Ajax Laundry and Dry Cleaners, and she was very lucky to have that job, and during the week the steamy, rushed langour of her work built up in her a sense of excitement. What was going to happen? Today was Saturday. Her face was rather full, and there was a slight mischievous puffiness about her cheeks that made her look younger than she was – she was sixteen – and her eyes were blue, a mindless, bland blue, not very sharp. Her lips were painted a deep scarlet, exactly the style of the day. Her eyebrows were plucked in exactly the style of the day. Did she not dream over the Sunday supplement features, and did she not linger on her way to work before the Trinity Theater in order to stare at the pictures? She wore a navy-blue dress pulled in tight at the waist. Her waist was surprisingly narrow, her shoulders a little broad, almost masculine; she was a strong girl. Upon her competent shoulders sat this fluttery, dreamy head, blond hair puffed out and falling down in coquettish curls past her ears, past her collar, down onto her back, so that when she ran along the sidewalk it blew out behind her and men stopped to stare at her; never did she bother to glance back at these men – they were like men in movies who do not appear in the foreground but only focus interest, show which way interest should be directed. She was in love with the thought of this. Behind her good clear skin was a universe of skin, all of it healthy. She loved this, she was in love with the fact of girls like her having come into existence, though she could not have expressed her feelings exactly. She said to her friend Rita, ‘Sometimes I feel so happy over nothing I must be crazy.’ Dragging around in the morning, trying to get her father up and trying to get her brother Brock fed and out before somebody started a fight, still she felt a peculiar sense of joy, of prickly excitement, that nothing could beat down. What was going to happen? ‘Oh, you’re not crazy,’ Rita said thoughtfully, ‘you just haven’t been through it yet.’

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She combed her hair with a heavy pink brush. It worried her to see her curls so listless – that was because of the heat. From the apartment across the way, through the open window, she could hear a radio playing music that meant Saturday night, and her heart began to pound with anticipation of the long hours ahead during which anything might happen. Her father, who had been out of work for almost ten years 40

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3 and who couldn’t do a thing, liked to lie in bed and drink and smoke, not caring that so many hours rushed by he’d never be able to get back – but Loretta felt that time was passing too quickly. It made her nervous. She scratched at her bare arm with the brush in a gentle, unconscious, caressing gesture, and felt the dreaminess of the late summer afternoon rise in her. In the kitchen someone sat down heavily, as if 45 answering her, in response to her wondering.

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The passage below describes the writer’s experience of a gorilla family in the forests of Rwanda in Africa. (a) In the next chapter of his book the writer describes an encounter with another wild animal in another part of the world. Basing your answer closely on the language and style of the extract, write the opening to the chapter (between 120 and 150 words). [10] (b) Compare the language and style of your piece with those of the original extract.

The most imperial creatures in the Garden were easily twice my size, and had they been so inclined, they could have batted the life out of my body with a casual backhand slap. I was a guest, not entirely welcome but tolerated because I abided by the rules. I stayed low and still, in a proper worshipful attitude. When I came upon a family of them on my last day in the Garden, Ndume, the one I knew best, the leader and patriarch, sighed as if to say, ‘You again?’ He didn’t exactly frown – nothing that intense – but he compressed his lips slightly, and a small vertical ridge formed in the shiny black skin just above his nose. It was an expression of mild annoyance.

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I thought I read some small curiosity there as well, so I crawled forward a bit. Ndume’s expression softened, and I grunted twice, a polite custom among his kind. 10 He returned the greeting, a deep, double gutteral rasp. Neither of us moved for quite some time. He sat, and I lay, in a deep green tangle of luxuriant vegetation. A drifting mountain mist cooled and dampened our faces. It was not polite to stare, so we both shifted our eyes frequently. A residue of morning rain glittered on the leaves. When I looked again, Ndume was holding his chin in the palm of his hand. He seemed to 15 be in a contemplative mood. I smiled at him, careful not to show my teeth, for this is an aggressive and impolite thing to do. Ndume smiled back, grunted courteously, and rose up onto all fours. He moved toward me, smiling vaguely and shifting his gaze in a well-bred manner. Despite the gleaming pelt of shiny black fur, I could see muscles the size of melons rolling in his upper arms. Ndume is a ‘silverback’, so 20 called because of the saddle of silver hair – a sign of sexual maturity – across his broad back. His odor was sharp: musky and sweet with a faint sour tang. He could have reached out and touched me. Instead he co*cked his head slightly, like a man trying to solve a tricky but trivial puzzle. There was a rolling, cloudlike fog in the Garden 25 now, and we regarded each other, man and gorilla, through a swirl of dreamlike mist. His eyes were a deep golden brown under the heavy black ridges of his brow. I felt unreal, strangely insubstantial, out of time, as though the mist between us was the stuff of millennia. Ndume strode off into the forest just as the sun broke through the clouds and 30 began to burn off the mist. We were on the lower slopes of a volcano called Visoke, just above Lake Ngezi. The temperature rose to seventy degrees, and the eleven gorillas of Ndume’s family were settling down for their afternoon siesta. Two infants, both less than two years old, and two juveniles, both about four, lay together in a furry heap. One of the juveniles stripped the leaves off a vine and stuffed them into 35 his mouth. An infant reached up, grabbed the juvenile, and pulled him backward. The juvenile’s mouth was open, and his face shone with a kind of idiot joy. His play chuckle, a heh-heh-heh sound, was barely audible. It resembled the sound a child might make laughing helplessly in church. The largest juvenile, a six-year-old female named Picasso, climbed a small tree 40 and stared down at me. Slowly the tree began to topple, bending until the trunk broke with a sharp crack and Picasso rolled into the dense vegetation on the forest floor. I was never able to decide whether gorillas are extraordinarily bad judges of

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5 which trees will hold them or whether they simply regard riding a breaking branch as 45 an exciting and efficient way to get down to the ground. Ndume clambered up the thick trunk of a huge hagenia. These are immense, gracefully expansive trees about forty feet high. The crotch formed by the trunk and the great lower branches is often large enough to accommodate several adult gorillas. Ndume found one such platform, rolled over heavily onto his back, one long arm dangling, and let the warm sun bake his chest and legs. One of the juveniles 50 climbed up to be with Ndume, settling carefully into the big male’s armpit. An infant found a soft spot to sleep in the middle of Ndume’s huge belly. There were yellow flowers blooming on the senecios and on the vine-entangled hypericum trees. Below, the surface of Lake Ngezi was as still and blue as the sky above. The chain of volcanoes stretched out, noble and massive in the distance, 55 ranging all the way to Uganda in one direction and to Zaire in another. The infant crawled over the silverback’s chest and pulled at the hair under the juvenile’s chin. The two dissolved into play chuckles and rolled over Ndume’s belly, wrestling indolently as the patriarch yawned, showing his massive canines. I felt, in that bright, aureate moment, that I was watching one of the loveliest 60 scenes on the face of the earth. It seemed like a tableau out of time: the lazy frolic, the drowsy family at peace in the provident forest, the special beauty of the lake and the mountains. I found myself thinking of the dawn of man, of the Garden of Eden. The sensation was almost physically seductive, and I wanted the moment to last forever – especially since I carried with me a fund of ominous knowledge. What 65 I knew tinged the idyllic setting with a sense of doom.

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The passage below describes a family outing. (a) Basing your answer closely on the style and language of the extract, continue the story (between 120 and 150 words). [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original extract.

And the next moment the three Mother and Fay and Totty were outside the gate and mother with a broom-like motion of her arms was sweeping the two little girls before her. O the train and the coloured pictures on the station, South America and Australia, and the bottle of fizzy drink that you could only half finish because you were too full, 5 and the ham sandwiches that curled up at the edges, because they were stale, Dad said, and he knew, and the rabbits and cows and bulls outside in the paddocks, and the sheep running away from the noise and the houses that came and went like a dream, clackety-clack, Kaitangata, Kaitangata, and the train stopping and panting and the man with the stick tapping the wheels and the huge rubber hose to give the 10 engine a drink, and the voices of the people in the carriage on and on and waiting. – Don’t forget Beach Street, Mum, Dad had said. Dad was away at work up at six o’clock early and couldn’t come. It was strange without him for he always managed. He got the tea and the fizzy drinks and the sandwiches and he knew which station was which and where and why and how, but Mother didn’t. Mother 15 was often too late for the fizzy drinks and she coughed before she spoke to the children and then in a whisper in case the people in the carriage should hear and think things, and she said I’m sure I don’t know kiddies when they asked about the station, but she was big and warm and knew about cats, and Father was hard and bony and his face prickled when he kissed you. 20 O look the beach coming it must be coming. The train stopped with a jerk and a cloud of smoke as if it had died and finished and would never go anywhere else just stay by the sea though you couldn’t see the water from here, and the carriages would be empty and slowly rusting as if the people in them had come to an end and could never go back as if they had found 25 what they were looking for after years and years of travelling on and on. But they were disturbed and peeved at being forced to move. The taste of smoke lingered in their mouths, they had to reach up for hat and coat and case, and comb their hair and make up their face again, certainly they had arrived but you have to be neat arriving with your shoes brushed and your hair in place and the shine off your nose. 30 Fay and Totty watched the little cases being snipped open and shut and the two little girls knew for sure that never would they grow up and be people in bulgy dresses, people knitting purl and plain with the ball of wool hanging safe and clean from a neat brown bag with hollyhocks and poppies on it. Hollyhocks and poppies and a big red initial, to show that you were you and not the somebody else you feared you 35 might be, but Fay and Totty didn’t worry they were going to the Beach. The Beach. Why wasn’t everyone going to the Beach? It seemed they were the only ones for when they set off down the fir-bordered road that led to the sound the sea kept making forever now in their ears, there was no one else going. Where had the others gone? Why weren’t there other people? 40

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2 Answer two questions.

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The passage below is an extract from the autobiography of the singer Victoria Beckham, also known as ‘Posh Spice’. In it, she describes how Geri Halliwell left the pop group [The Spice Girls] they were both in at one time. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Elsewhere in her autobiography, the writer criticises another singer (real or imaginary) she has worked with. Basing your answer closely on the style of the original extract, write the opening (between 120–150 words) to the passage. [10]

It was a bit like how everyone wanted there to be a sinister reason why Princess Diana was killed – a conspiracy by MI5. Because the truth – that she was killed by a drunk-driver – was just too banal for somebody whose life was a fairy tale. I’m not saying that Geri leaving the Spice Girls was a tragedy like Princess Diana’s death, but it was the same in the way that when Geri left everyone wanted there to have been blood on the floor. But there wasn’t any. The truth is that Geri left because she wanted to move on. Nobody was to blame for Geri leaving except Geri. Geri really had been under much more strain than the rest of us. It was always harder for her, the only Spice Girl who wasn’t a trained dancer. It’s not easy getting up there on stage night after night, six days a week. In spite of all the extra classes and rehearsals, she still found the pace of doing show after show more difficult to cope with than the rest of us. And she did get criticized for it, and it’s horrible when people say you’re the one with no talent, which they did. And I should know. But the Spice Girls aren’t just successful because they’re good singers or dancers. At the original audition, Bob and Chris turned down better singers than us, because you need more than good voices. The Spice Girls are not only successful because of our vocals but because of our personalities. And you could never accuse Geri of not having a personality. I don’t know any more than anyone else, but the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that she had it all planned to the last detail: she would disappear for a while, then there would be that time when she appeared to be feeling bad, paying her debt to society if you like, working for the UN, keeping a high public profile while behind the scenes recording her solo album. And then there would be the sock-it-to-them comeback. I remember seeing her on Parkinson in that Salvation Army grey suit, with the nice-looking ponytail and no make-up, looking really dull and boring, saying how Ginger Spice is no more, Ginger Spice is dead. Blah blah blah. And I thought, you might fool Parkinson but you can’t fool me. I know what you’re going to do. So her first single comes out and it’s Goodbye Miss UN-Nice-as-Pie. Instead it’s Geri the Vamp, with these hideous long extensions – I don’t know what she thought she was doing, but it was vile. Bad-taste Geri was back. And then in the video there was a big car with a wreath on it that said Ginger. The Spice Girls have got a lot of young fans, and I thought that was so not right to do. Yet no one will criticize her for her music – at least the media won’t – because they need her. People in the music industry are a different matter. Geri knew that, because her singing wasn’t the best singing in the world, and her dancing wasn’t the best dancing in the world; for her music to be accepted she had to get on a public sympathy jag so that everybody would be thinking nicely of her.

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3 Geri tries to completely dismiss everything that she’s done in her past. She likes to forget there was ever a Ginger Spice. Yet at the end of the day, we all know that we wouldn’t be where we are if it wasn’t for the Spice Girls. Yes, it can sometimes irritate me when I walk down the street and someone yells out, ‘Oi, Posh’. I don’t like it any more than someone walking down the street likes being called their professional name. Imagine – ‘Oi, Builder’ or ‘Oi, Receptionist’. Because Posh Spice is my job. She’s what made me. And for Geri to pretend otherwise is just arrogance. In her autobiography she said we knew she was leaving. Perhaps she thought we were mind-readers. We didn’t know. Why she said that I have no idea; perhaps because it made her look better, because otherwise it was like admitting she had left us in the lurch. Which, of course, was exactly what she did. Geri Halliwell had left us totally in the lurch. We did the Lottery then went straight to Heathrow where we caught a plane to Oslo well before midnight. The official Virgin line was to be: ‘Geri is suffering from nervous exhaustion.’ Yeah, right. We knew that the place would be rammed with media in Oslo hoping to see us fall flat on our faces, just like they did after we sacked Simon. Then it was Svengali Spice who the Spice Girls couldn’t survive without. Now it was Ginger Spice we couldn’t survive without. Everything was negative. History is against them, they wrote, going on about how the Supremes never recovered from Diana Ross going. We didn’t care about history being against us, history said a girl band couldn’t conquer America. What we didn’t need was the press being against us. We only had a few hours to re-stage everything. We had stand-in dancers, but nobody had thought to have a stand-in Spice Girl. Choreography-wise there wasn’t a problem. As any dancer will tell you four is easier than five any day. An odd number always leaves somebody in the middle, at the back or the front. Even vocally, four is easier than five and we worked through the songs one by one. For me, there was one big plus. For the first time ever I got to sing on ‘Wannabe’. Once on stage we had to keep our wits about us. We could hardly go on clutching a piece of paper with our notes about who was singing what line. We just had to remember. And there was the odd glitch, the odd silence when whoever was meant to be singing Geri’s line just forgot. It was a lot to cope with, and it was such an emotional time.

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The passage below describes the search made by an architect for a church organist. (a) Basing your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage, write a continuation of the story (between 120–150 words) maintaining its atmosphere of mystery and suspense. You do not have to bring the story to a conclusion. [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with those of the original passage.

In a minute he had made up his mind to go to the church. As resident architect he possessed a master key which opened all the doors; he would walk round, and see if he could find anything of the missing organist before going to bed. He strode quickly through the deserted streets. The lamps were all put out, for Cullerne economized gas at times of full-moon. There was nothing moving, his footsteps rang on the pavement, and echoed from wall to wall. He took the short-cut by the harbour, and in a few minutes came to the old warehouse. The shadows hung like black velvet in the spaces between the brick buttresses that shored up the wall towards the quay. He smiled to himself as he thought of the organist’s nervousness, of those strange fancies as to someone lurking in the black hiding-holes, and as to buildings being in some way connected with man’s fate. Yet he knew that his smile was assumed, for he felt all the while the oppression of the loneliness, of the sadness of a half-ruined building, of the gurgling mutter of the river, and instinctively quickened his pace. He was glad when he had passed the spot, and again that night, as he looked back, he saw the strange effect of light and darkness which produced the impression of someone standing in the shadow of the last buttress space. The illusion was so perfect that he thought he could make out the figure of a man, in a long loose cape that flapped in the wind. He had passed the wrought-iron gates now – he was in the churchyard, and it was then that he first became aware of a soft, low, droning sound which seemed to fill the air all about him. He stopped for a moment to listen; what was it? Where was the noise? It grew more distinct as he passed along the flagged stone path which led to the north door. Yes, it certainly came from inside the church. What could it be? What could anyone be doing in the church at this hour of night? He was in the north porch now, and then he knew what it was. It was a low note of the organ – a pedal-note; he was almost sure it was that very pedal-point which the organist had explained to him with such pride. The sound reassured him nothing had happened to Mr Sharnall – he was practising in the church; it was only some mad freak of his to be playing so late. He took out his key to unlock the narrow gate, and was surprised to find it already open, because he knew that it was the organist’s habit to lock himself in. He passed into the great church. It was strange, there was no sound of music; there was no one playing; there was only the intolerably monotonous booming of a single pedal-note, with an occasional muffled thud when the water-engine turned spasmodically to replenish the emptying bellows. ‘Sharnall!’ he shouted – ‘Sharnall, what are you doing? Don’t you know how late it is?’ He paused and thought at first that someone was answering him – he thought that he heard people muttering in the choir; but it was only the echo of his own voice, his own voice tossed from pillar to pillar and arch to arch, till it faded into a wail of ‘Sharnall, Sharnall!’ high up in the tower.

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5 It was the first time that he had been in the church at night, and he stood for a moment overcome with the mystery of the place, while he gazed at the columns of the nave standing white in the moonlight like a row of vast shrouded figures. He called again to Mr Sharnall, and again received no answer, and then he made his 45 way up the nave to the little doorway that leads to the organ-loft stairs.

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2 Answer two questions.

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The passage below describes the writer’s experience of going on holiday with his mother and father. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) After one such holiday the mother writes a letter to a relative outlining her experience of the trip with her family. Basing your answer closely on the material of the extract, write the opening (between 120-150 words) of her letter. [10]

In my memory, our vacations were always taken in a big blue Rambler stationwagon. It was a cruddy car – my dad always bought cruddy cars, until he got to the male menopause and started buying zippy red convertibles – but it had the great virtue of space. My brother, sister and I in the back were miles away from my parents up front, in effect another room. We quickly discovered during illicit forays into the picnic hamper that if you stuck a bunch of Ohio Blue Tip matches into an apple or hard-boiled egg, so that it resembled a porcupine, and casually dropped it out the tailgate window, it was like a bomb. It would explode with a small bang and a surprisingly big flash of blue flame, causing cars following behind to veer in an amusing fashion. My dad, miles away up front, never knew what was going on and could not understand why all day long cars would zoom up alongside him with the driver gesticulating furiously, before tearing off into the distance. ‘What was that all about?’ he would say to my mother in a wounded tone. ‘I don’t know, dear,’ my mother would answer mildly. My mother only ever said two things. She said, ‘I don’t know, dear.’ And she said, ‘Can I get you a sandwich, honey?’ Occasionally on our trips she would volunteer other pieces of intelligence like, ‘Should that dashboard light be glowing like that, dear?’ or, ‘I think you hit that dog/man/blind person back there, honey,’ but mostly she wisely kept quiet. This was because on vacations my father was a man obsessed. His principal obsession was with trying to economize. He always took us to the crummiest hotels and motor lodges, and to the kind of roadside eating-houses where they only washed the dishes weekly. You always knew, with a sense of doom, that at some point before finishing you were going to discover someone else’s congealed egg-yolk lurking somewhere on your plate or plugged between the tines of your fork. This, of course, meant cooties1 and a long, painful death. But even that was a relative treat. Usually we were forced to picnic by the side of the road. My father had an instinct for picking bad picnic sites – on the apron of a busy truck stop or in a little park that turned out to be in the heart of some seriously deprived ghetto, so that groups of children would come and stand silently by our table and watch us eating Hostess Cupcakes and crinkle-cut potato chips – and it always became incredibly windy the moment we stopped, so that my mother spent the whole of lunch-time chasing paper plates over an area of about an acre. In 1957 my father invested $19.98 in a portable gas stove that took an hour to assemble before each use and was so wildly temperamental that we children were always ordered to stand well back when it was being lit. This always proved unnecessary, however, because the stove would flicker to life only for a few seconds before puttering out, and my father would spend many hours turning it this way and that to keep it out of the wind, simultaneously addressing it in a low, agitated tone normally associated with the chronically insane. All the while my brother, sister and I would implore him to take us some place with air-conditioning, linen tablecloths and ice-cubes clinking in glasses of clear water. ‘Dad,’ we would beg, ‘you’re a successful man. You make a good living. Take us to a Howard Johnson’s.’ But © UCLES 2008

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3 he wouldn’t have it. He was a child of the Depression and where capital outlays were involved he always wore the haunted look of a fugitive who had just heard bloodhounds in the distance. Eventually, with the sun low in the sky, he would hand us hamburgers that were cold and raw and smelled of butane. We would take one bite and refuse to eat any more. So my father would lose his temper and throw everything into the car and drive us at high speed to some roadside diner where a sweaty man with a floppy hat would sling hash while grease-fires danced on his grill. And afterwards, in a silent car filled with bitterness and unquenched basic needs, we would mistakenly turn off the main highway and get lost and end up in some no-hope hamlet with a name like Draino, Indiana, or Tapwater, Missouri, and get a room in the only hotel in town, the sort of rundown place where if you wanted to watch TV it meant you had to sit in the lobby and share a cracked leatherette sofa with an old man with big sweat circles under his arms. The old man would almost certainly have only one leg and probably one other truly arresting deficiency, like no nose or a caved-in forehead, which meant that although you were sincerely intent on watching Laramie or Our Miss Brooks, you found your gaze being drawn, ineluctably and sneakily, to the amazing eaten-away body sitting beside you. You couldn’t help yourself. Occasionally the man would turn out to have no tongue, in which case he would try to engage you in lively conversation. It was all most unsatisfying. 1cooties

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The passage below describes a European’s first experience of visiting Africa. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same traveller later publishes an account of another place (real or imaginary) that he has visited. Basing your answer closely on the style of the original extract, write the opening section (between 120-150 words) of his account. [10]

The sun does not rise here. To describe it thus implies a slow, gradual awakening. It does not ascend gracefully in a heavenly arc. It ambushes the night. Suddenly, leaping out from behind its own shadow, free of its self-imprisoning cloak of darkness, a ready-made ball of solid, triumphantly glaring light. It is a huge glaring Cyclops1. An immediate challenge to anything under its dominion. It will kill if given a chance. It will deny life, drying anything to dust. The air does not warm then ease its way to a tepid heat. The sun slaps the night aside and is immediately hot. Is suddenly there. Present and material. It lends the air weight, transforming it from its thin invisibility of night to a heavy material substance. Something to be battled against and through. Where every indrawn breath scalds and all exposed flesh burns. There is no seemly shading of demure pinks to oranges to yellows then white. None of the politesse of adjustment. No appreciation of the subtleties of temperature. No soft waking to the day, the cool of dawn, the gentle stirring of the land, the shading of the clouds before the clarity of noon. None of the quiet trembling of siesta heat, followed by the kindly decline into the soothing contemplation of the evening. No. It catapults directly, fully formed, from the deep settled velvet dark of the African nightblack. Like some hideous jack-in-the-box it leaps leering into the sky, glaring manically and daring anything to stir. The sun detests its great enemy – shade. Shade – the sole, great challenger to its sovereign reign. It will do anything to destroy it. It will suck the ground dry of water, dew or damp to deny the tree. It will pound relentlessly on the nomad’s tented roof. It will stalk the verandahed pavements and eliminate the shadow of anyone foolhardy enough to challenge it and venture forth. But still trees grow. And still people move. But they do so very slowly. The grace and elegance of human movement in Africa is not accidental. It is environmental. It is learned. The overriding consideration is to conserve energy. Every action must be considered and weighed against the draining torpor of the day. Consider an African walking. You will rarely see one do anything as provocative as run. There is an effortless, upright elegance. A huge poise against the endless whiteness of the sky. There is nothing superfluous in the action. No sudden rushes. No flurries. Rather, a slow, rhythmic steadiness of unhurried ease wholly different from the flustered, busy, jerky, spasmodic rush common to the European. The women, like models or ballerinas, gracefully upright, balance perfectly between sky and earth, their hips propelling them forward in a lullaby sway. On their heads improbable weights of stuff. Sewing machines, car parts, electric kettles, animals, huge bundles of wood or protruding carrots that make them resemble beautiful black Statues of Liberty. And in the pasturelands of the Masai or the deserts of the Tuareg, the salt-flat depressions of the Afar or the highlands of the Amhara, in a landscape of nothing a solitary figure utterly still in this vast empty space standing on a single leg for ever. Motionless and still under the impotent sun and magnificent in his place. There is no need to hurry or move and there is no benefit in doing so. No, this is not the Dark Continent. But many of us can only see Africa from the dark side of our mind. The impenetrable place, the unknowable minds. The hordes of walking skeletons, too weak to swat the flies that cover them in the stinking squalor © UCLES 2008

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5 of the relief camps. Or the disease-stricken people fleeing yet another nameless war between countries, clans, tribes or warlords. And, yes, all of that is true too much of the time, but in refusing to see the many other Africas we bring our own darknesses to bear. Still others fill the romantic space in their imagination with an 50 Africa of ‘unspoilt’ child-like primitives and wild, beautiful creatures. But the reality is that this continent is all of that and has everything else. Rainforest, jungle, savannah, Mediterranean and coastal climates, with more fish and animals and birds, more peoples, cultures and languages than anywhere else on the planet. It is quite simply 55 the most beautiful place in our world. No, not the Dark Continent. This is the Luminous Continent. 1Cyclops

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In the extract below the narrator describes her confusion about her surroundings and her uncertainty about the man she meets. (a) Later that day the narrator has another meal and meets someone else. Basing your answer closely on the style of the original extract, write the opening section (between 120-150 words) of the narrator’s account of this experience. [10] (b) Compare the language and style of your piece to those of the original extract.

How it happens is a long story, always. And I apparently begin with being here: a boxy room that’s too wide to be cosy, its dirty ceiling hung just low enough to press down a broad, unmistakable haze of claustrophobia. To my right is an over-large clock of the kind favoured by playschools and homes for the elderly, the kind with bold, black numbers and cartoon-thick hands that shout what time it is whether you’re curious or not. It shows 8.42 and counting. Above, there is a generalized sting of yellow light. 8.42 But I don’t know which one – night or morning. Either way, from what I can already see, I would rather not be involved in all this too far beyond 8.43. In one fist, I notice, I’m holding a key. Its fob is made of viciously green plastic, translucent and moulded to a shape which illustrates what would happen if a longdead ear was inflated until morbidly obese. I only know that it’s actually meant to be a leaf, because it is marked with an effort towards the stem, the ribs and veins that a leaf might have. I presume I’m supposed to like this key and give it the benefit of the doubt because people are fond of trees and, by extension, leaves. But I don’t like leaves, not even real ones. I’ll tell you what I do like, though: what I adore – I’m looking right at it, right now and it is gorgeous, quite the prettiest thing I’ve seen since 8.41. It concerns my other hand – the one that is leaf-free. It is a liquid. I do love liquids. Rising from the beaker to the jug in that continually-renewing, barely-sugared twist: falling from the jug into the beaker like a muscle perpetually flexed and reflexed, the honey-coloured heart of some irreversibly specialized animal. It’s glimmering and, of course, pouring – a drink pouring, hurrying in to ease a thirst, just as it should. I put down the jug and I lift up the glass, just as I should. I presume it’s filled with some kind of apple juice and, on closer acquaintance, I find this to be so – not very pleasant, but certainly wet and necessary. The air, and therefore my mouth, currently tastes of cheap cleaning products, unhappy people, a hundred years of stubborn cigarette smoke and the urine of young children, left to lie. Which means I need my drink. Besides, I really do have, now I think about it, a terrible thirst.

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‘Terrible weather?’ I’m swallowing ersatz fruit, not even from concentrate, so I can’t have said a 35 word – it wasn’t me who spoke. Terrible thirst: terrible weather – but the echo is accidental, I would have to be feeling quite paranoid to think it was anything else. Nevertheless, the remark feels intrusive – as if it had access to my skull – and so I turn without even preparing a smile and discover the party responsible tucked behind me: a straggly, gingery man, 40 loitering. He has longish, yellowish, curly hair, which was, perhaps, cute at some time in his youth, but has thinned now into a wispy embarrassment. I can almost picture him, each evening, praying to be struck bald overnight. God has not, so far, been merciful. © UCLES 2008

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7 Mr Wispy’s expression attempts to remain enquiring although he says nothing more and I do not meet his eyes or in any way encourage him. He is the type to have hobbies: sad ones that he’ll want to talk about. Checking swiftly, I can see there are no windows, which may explain his lack of meteorological certainty. There’s no way that either of us can know what the weather is doing outside. Then again, Straggly has the look of a person habitually unsure of things: it may be he’s stolen a peek beyond the room and already has prior knowledge of whatever conditions prevail – monsoon, dust storm, sleet – he may simply hope I’ll confirm his observations. Of course, I have no prior knowledge, not a trace. There is a fake cart rigged up, beyond us both – it’s clearly made of stainless steel, but is burdened with a feminine canopy and fat little flounces of chintz. Inside, I can make out a seethe of heat lamps and trays of orange, brown, or grey things which ought to be food, I suppose. The whole assembly smells of nothing beyond boredom and possibly old grease. ‘Really dreadful … Yes?’ He tries again: maybe harping on about the weather, maybe just depressive, I can’t say I care. ‘Appalling.’ I nod and angle myself away. But Straggly has to chip in again. ‘Tchsss …’ He seems to be taking the whole thing very personally, whatever it is. And I notice there’s something slightly expectant in the scampery little glances he keeps launching across at me. It could be that he will give me a headache soon.

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2 Answer two questions.

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The passage below describes the writer’s secret observation of her great-grandmother one night in her house in Paris. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The great-grandmother keeps a journal. In one of the last entries, she recalls having her great-granddaughter to stay in her house. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening section (between 120-150 words) of the journal entry. [10]

I used to creep on stockinged feet to the end of the long vista, a scared adventurer in the hushed palace of Sleeping Beauty, and it was on such an evening that I saw my great-grandmother, as I most vividly remember her, coming towards me, from the length of that immeasurable distance, tiny, bent, and alone. She was a rude, despotic old materialist, without an ounce of romance or fantasy in her body, but to me that night she was every malevolent fairy incarnate, more especially that disgruntled one who had so disastrously attended Sleeping Beauty’s christening. I had often been frightened of her tongue; that night I was frightened of her magic. I stood transfixed, incapable of the retreat for which I still had ample time. I remember being wildly thankful that I had on, at least, a clean pinafore. Very slowly she advanced, propped upon her stick, all in black beneath the candles, pausing now and then to look about her, as though she welcomed this escape from the aged servants who usually attended her, or from the guests, deferential but inquisitive, who came, as she shrewdly knew, to boast afterwards of their admission into this almost legendary fastness1. Very leisurely she was, savouring the wealth of her possessions, stealing out of her room when no one knew that she was abroad; as clandestine, really, as I myself—and suddenly I knew that on no account must she learn the presence of an eavesdropper. It was no longer fear that prompted me to slip behind the curtain looped across the last door; it was a desperate pity; pity of her age, I suppose, pity of her frailty, pity of her as the spirit of that house, stubborn in the preservation of what was already a thing of the past, whose life would go out with hers; it was her will alone that kept the house together, as it was her will alone that kept the breath fluttering in her body. What thoughts were hers as she lingered in her progress I cannot pretend to tell; I only know that to me she was a phantom, an evocation, a symbol, although, naturally, being but a child, I gave her no such name. To me, at the moment, she was simply a being so old and so fragile that I half expected her to crumble into dust at my feet. She crossed the dining room and passed me, flattened against the wall and trying to cover the white of my pinafore with a fold of the curtain; so close she passed to me, that I observed the quiver of her fine hands on the knob of her stick and the transparency of the features beneath the shrouding mantilla2 of black lace. I wondered what her errand might be, as she stood, so bent and shrunken, beneath the immense height of the ballroom. But it was evident that errand she had none. She stood there quietly surveying, almost as though she took a protracted and contemplative farewell, all unaware of the eyes of youth that spied upon her. Her glance roamed round, with satisfaction, I thought, but whether with satisfaction at the beauty of the room, or at having kept off for so long the tides that threatened to invade it, I could not tell. Then, as she stood there, the clocks in the room began to strike the hour. There were thirty clocks in the room—I had often counted them—big clocks, little clocks, wall clocks, table clocks, grandfather clocks, and even a clock with a musical box in © UCLES 2008

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3 its intestines; and it was a point of honour with Baptiste that they should all strike at the same moment. So now they began; first the deep note of the clock in the corner, then the clear ring of a little Cupid hitting a hammer on a bell, then a rumble and a note like a mastiff baying, then a gay trill, then the first bars of a chime, then innumerable others all joining in, till the room was filled with the music of the passing hour, and my great-grandmother standing in the middle, listening, listening....I could see her face, for her head was lifted, and her expression was a thing I shall never forget, so suddenly lighted up was it; so pleased; so gallant; so, even, amused. She had, I think, her private joke and understanding with the clocks. The little flames of the candles quivered in the vibration of the air, but as the last notes died away they steadied again, like a life which has wavered for an instant, only to resume with a strengthened purpose. And as the silence fluttered down once more, my greatgrandmother drooped from her strange, humorous ecstasy, and it was as a little figure bent and tired that I saw her retrace her steps down the long vista of the lighted rooms. 1fastness 2mantilla

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– place of seclusion – shawl

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The extract below describes the writer’s experience when he visits Kathmandu in Nepal. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The local tourist board wishes to promote the area and its attractions to potential visitors and establishes a website for that purpose. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening section (between 120-150 words) of the website’s home page. [10]

I get a cheap room in the centre of town and sleep for hours. The next morning, with Mr Shah’s son and nephew, I visit the two temples in Kathmandu that are most sacred to Hindus and Buddhists. At Pashupatinath (outside which a sign proclaims ‘Entrance for the Hindus only’) there is an atmosphere of febrile confusion. Hawkers, devotees, tourists, cows, monkeys, pigeons and dogs roam through the grounds. We offer a few flowers. There are so many worshippers that some people trying to get the priest’s attention are elbowed aside by others pushing their way to the front. A princess of the Nepalese royal house appears; everyone bows and makes way. By the main gate, a party of saffron-clad Westerners struggle for permission to enter. A fight breaks out between two monkeys. One chases the other, then runs screaming around the temples and down to the river, the holy Bagmati, that flows below. A corpse is being cremated on its banks; washerwomen are at their work and children bathe. From a balcony a basket of flowers and leaves, old offerings now wilted, is dropped into the river. A stone image of a Nandi bull sits firmly between two competing sadhus1, each muttering his mantra, each keeping a careful eye on the passers-by. A small shrine half protrudes from the stone platform on the river bank. When it emerges fully, the goddess inside will escape, and the evil period will end on earth. At the Baudhnath stupa, the Buddhist shrine of Kathmandu, there is, in contrast, a sense of stillness. Its immense white dome is ringed by a road. Small shops stand on its outer edge: many of these are owned by Tibetan immigrants; felt bags, Tibetan prints and silver jewellery can be bought here. There are no crowds: this is a haven of quietness in the busy streets around. In Kathmandu I wind down after my journey. I luxuriate in my tiredness; drift deliciously along, all energy spent, allowing sight to follow sight, thought to follow thought, for now (apart from the easily fulfillable intention of returning to Delhi) there is nothing, no intermediate step that I must perform: there is no lift to look for, no hill to climb, no load to carry, no town en route. There are no papers that I have to obtain. For a person of fundamentally sedentary habits I have been wandering far too long; a continuously wandering life would drive me crazy. I marvel at those travellers who, out of curiosity or a sense of mission, wander through unfamiliar environments for years on end. It requires an attitude of mind more capable of contentment with the present than my own. My drive to arrive is too strong. At many points in this journey, impatience has displaced enjoyment. This tension is the true cause of my exhaustion. When I am back in Delhi I will not move for a month, just sit at home, talk with family and friends, read, rewind, sleep. I consider what route I should take back home. If I were propelled by enthusiasm for travel per se, I would go by bus and train to Patna, then sail up the Ganges past Benares to Allahabad, then up the Jumna, past Agra to Delhi. But I am too exhausted and homesick; today is the last day of August. Go home, I tell myself: move directly towards home. I enter a Nepal Airlines office and buy a ticket for tomorrow’s flight. I look at the fluteseller standing in a corner of the square near the hotel. In his hand is a pole with an attachment at the top from which fifty or sixty instruments protrude in all directions, like the quills of a porcupine. They are of bamboo: there are cross-flutes and recorders. From time to time he stands the pole on the ground, selects a flute and plays for a few minutes. The sound rises clearly above the noise © UCLES 2008

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5 of the traffic and the hawkers’ cries. He plays slowly, meditatively, without excessive display. He does not shout out his wares. Occasionally he makes a sale, but in a curiously offhanded way as if this were incidental to his enterprise. Sometimes he breaks off playing to talk to the fruitseller. I imagine that this has been the pattern of his life for years. I find it difficult to tear myself away from the square. Flute music always does this to me: it is at once the most universal and most particular of sounds. To hear any flute is, it seems to me, to be drawn into the commonalty of all mankind, to be moved by music closest in its phrases and sentences to the human voice. Its motive force too is living breath: it too needs to pause and breathe before it can go on. 1sadhus

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– holy men

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The extract below is taken from a short story set in Canada. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later in life, Annabelle writes her autobiography. In one chapter she looks back at her early life on the farm. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening (between 120-150 words) of the chapter. [10]

Martha was thirty-seven. She had clinched with the body and substance of life; had loved, borne children—a boy had died—and yet the quickest aches of life, travail, heartbrokenness, they had never wrung as the wheat wrung. For the wheat allowed no respite. Wasting and unending it was struggle, struggle against wind and insects, drought and weeds. Not an heroic struggle to give a man courage and resolve, but a frantic, unavailing one. They were only poor, taunted, driven things; it was the wheat that was invincible. They only dreaded, built bright futures; waited for the first glint of green, watched timorous and eager while it thickened, merged, and at last leaned bravely to a ripple in the wind; then followed every slip of cloud into the horizon, turned to the wheat and away again. And it died tantalizingly sometimes, slowly: there would be a cool day, a pittance of rain. Or perhaps it lived, perhaps the rain came, June, July, even into August, hope climbing, wish-patterns painted on the future. And then one day a clench and tremble to John’s hand; his voice faltering, dull. Grasshoppers perhaps, sawflies or rust; no matter, they would grovel for a while, stand back helpless, then go on again. Go on in bitterness and cowardice, because there was nothing else but going-on. She had loved John, for these sixteen years had stood close watching while he died—slowly, tantalizingly, as the parched wheat died. He had grown unkempt, ugly, morose. His voice was gruff, contentious, never broke into the deep, strong laughter that used to make her feel she was living at the heart of things. John was gone, love was gone; there was only wheat. She plucked a blade; her eyes travelled hungrily up and down the field. Serene now, all its sting and torment sheathed. Beautiful, more beautiful than Annabelle’s poppies, than her sunsets. Theirs—all of it. Three hundred acres ready to give perhaps a little of what it had taken from her—John, his love, his lips unclenched. Three hundred acres. Bushels, thousands of bushels, she wouldn’t even try to think how many. And prices up this year. It would make him young again, lift his head, give him spirit. Maybe he would shave twice a week as he used to when they were first married, buy new clothes, believe in himself again. She walked down the road towards the house, her steps quickening to the pace of her thoughts until the sweat clung to her face like little beads of oil. It was the children now, Joe and Annabelle: this winter perhaps they could send them to school in town and let them take music lessons. Annabelle, anyway. At a pinch Joe could wait a while; he was only eight. It wouldn’t take Annabelle long to pick up her notes; already she played hymn tunes by ear on the organ. She was bright, a real little lady for manners; among town people she would learn a lot. The farm was no place to bring her up. Running wild and barefoot, what would she be like in a few years? Who would ever want to marry her but some stupid country lout? John had never been to school himself; he knew what it meant to go through life with nothing but his muscles to depend on; and that was it, dread that Annabelle and Joe would be handicapped as he was, that was what had darkened him, made him harsh and dour. That was why he breasted the sun and dust a frantic, dogged fool, to spare them, to help them to a life that offered more than sweat and debts. Martha knew. He was a slow, inarticulate man, but she knew. Sometimes it even vexed her, brought a wrinkle of jealousy, his anxiety about the children, his sense of responsibility where they were concerned. He never seemed to feel that he owed her anything, never worried about her future. She could sweat, grow flat-footed and © UCLES 2008

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7 shapeless, but that never bothered him. Her thoughts were on their old, trudging way, the way they always went; but then she halted suddenly, and with her eyes across the wheat again found freshening promise in its quiet expanse. The children must come first, but she and John— mightn’t there be a little of life left for them too? A man was young at thirty-nine. And if she didn’t have to work so hard, if she could get some new clothes, maybe some of the creams and things that the other women had... As she passed through the gate, Annabelle raced across the yard to meet her. “Do you know what Joe’s done? He’s taken off all his clothes and he’s in the trough with Nipper1!” She was a lanky girl, sunburned, barefoot, her face oval and regular, but spoiled by an expression that strained her mouth and brows into a reproachful primness. It was Martha who had taught her the expression, dinning manners and politeness into her, trying to make her better then the other little girls who went to the country school. She went on, her eyes wide and aghast, “And when I told him to come out he stood right up, all bare, and I had to come away.” “Well, you tell him he’d better be out before I get there.” “But how can I tell him? He’s all bare.” 1Nipper

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– the family dog

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2 Answer two questions.

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The extract below is taken from a short story and describes a man’s thoughts and feelings about a nurse who is employed in his household. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) At the end of the story, Miss Wilmarth writes a letter home to her sister. In it, she describes her feelings about Mr and Mrs Cruger. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening (between 120–150 words) of her letter. [10]

When young Mrs Gerald Cruger came home from the hospital, Miss Wilmarth came along with her and the baby. Miss Wilmarth was an admirable trained nurse, sure and calm and tireless, with a real taste for the arranging of flowers in bowls and vases. She had never known a patient to receive so many flowers, or such uncommon ones; yellow violets and strange lilies and little white orchids poised like a bevy of delicate moths along green branches. Care and thought must have been put into their selection that they, like all the other fragile and costly things she kept about her, should be so right for young Mrs Cruger. No one who knew her could have caught up the telephone and lightly bidden the florist to deliver to her one of his five-dollar assortments of tulips, stock and daffodils. Camilla Cruger was no complement to garden blooms. Sometimes, when Miss Wilmarth opened the shiny boxes and carefully grouped the cards, there would come a curious expression about her face. Playing over shorter features, it might almost have been one of wistfulness. Upon Miss Wilmarth, it served to perfect the strange resemblance that she bore through her years; her face was truly complete with that look of friendly melancholy peculiar to the gentle horse. It was not, of course, Miss Wilmarth’s fault that she looked like a horse. Indeed, there was nowhere to attach any blame. But the resemblance remained. She was tall, pronounced of bone, and erect of carriage; it was somehow impossible to speculate upon her appearance undressed. Her long face was innocent, indeed ignorant, of cosmetics, and its colour stayed steady. Confusion, heat, or haste caused her neck to flush crimson. Her mild hair was pinned with loops of nicked black wire into a narrow knot, practical to support her little high cap, like a charlotte russe1 from a bake-shop. She had big, trustworthy hands, scrubbed and dry, with nails cut short and so deeply cleaned with some small sharp instrument that the ends stood away from the finger-tips. Gerald Cruger, who nightly sat opposite her at his own dinner table, tried not to see her hands. It irritated him to be reminded by their sight that they must feel like straw matting and smell of white soap. For him, women who were not softly lovely were simply not women. He tried, too, so far as it was possible to his beautiful manners, to keep his eyes from her face. Not that it was unpleasant – a kind face, certainly. But, as he told Camilla, once he looked he stayed fascinated, awaiting the toss and the whinny. “I love horses, myself,” he said to Camilla, who lay all white and languid on her apricot satin chaise-longue. “I’m a fool for a horse. Ah, what a noble animal, darling! All I say is, nobody has any business to go around looking like a horse and behaving as if it were all right. You don’t catch horses going around looking like people, do you?” He did not dislike Miss Wilmarth; he only resented her. He had no bad wish in the world for her, but he waited with longing the day she would leave. She was so skilled and rhythmic in her work that she disrupted the household but little. Nevertheless, her presence was an onus2. There was that thing of dining with her every evening. It was a chore for him, certainly, and one that did not ease with repetition, but there was no choice. Everyone had always heard of trained nurses’ bristling insistence © UCLES 2009

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3 that they be not treated as servants; Miss Wilmarth could not be asked to dine with the maids. He would not have dinner out; be away from Camilla? It was too much to expect the maids to institute a second dinner service or to carry trays, other than Camilla’s, up and down the stairs. There were only three servants and they had work enough. So Gerald dined each night with Miss Wilmarth. The small dread of his hour with her struck suddenly at him in the afternoon. He would forget it for stretches of minutes, only to be smitten sharper as the time drew near. On his way home from his office, he found grim entertainment in rehearsing his table talk, and plotting desperate innovations to it. Cruger’s Compulsory Conversations: Lesson I, a Dinner with a Miss Wilmarth, a Trained Nurse. Good evening, Miss Wilmarth. Well! And how were the patients all day? That’s good, that’s fine. Well! The baby gained two ounces, did she? That’s fine. Yes, that’s right, she will be before we know it. That’s right. Well! Mrs Cruger seems to be getting stronger every day, doesn’t she? That’s good, that’s fine. That’s right, up and about before we know it. Yes, she certainly will. Well! Any visitors today? That’s good. Didn’t stay too long, did they? That’s fine. Well! No, no, no, Miss Wilmarth – you go ahead. I wasn’t going to say anything at all, really. Well! I see the cat. Do you see the cat? That cat is on the mat. It certainly is. Well! Pardon me, Miss Wilmarth, but must you look so much like a horse? Do you like to look like a horse, Miss Wilmarth? That’s good, Miss Wilmarth, that’s fine. You certainly do, Miss Wilmarth. That’s right. Well! Will you for God’s sake finish your oats, Miss Wilmarth, and let me get out of this?

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1charlotte 2onus

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russe – an elaborate cake – burden

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The passage below describes the writer’s relationship with his father. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The father in the passage later becomes a journalist and contributes an article on effective parenting to a magazine. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening (between 120-150 words) of the article. [10]

He was a complete stranger when he turned up late one morning, carrying a khaki kitbag across Hempton Green – the moment at which family life began for me. My first impression of him was of an unprepossessing roughness. The photo on the mantelpiece showed a junior officer so boyish he looked too young to shave. My father’s jowl was the colour and texture of emery paper. His demob suit1, too, seemed to have been woven out of corn-stubble. When my mother and he embraced, right there in the open on the green, I was mortified. I studied the faded white lettering on his bag: Major J.P.C.P. Raban R.A. By what right did this tall soldier in his ill-fitting civilian suit horn in on our household? The question took me several years to even begin to answer. My father must have been a bit shaken too. His spindly, solemn son can hardly have been the beamish three-year-old he might have looked forward to. He was obviously unused to children anyway, and had had no practice at dealing with precocious little invalids who cried when he spoke to them. He brought with him the affectedly hearty manners of the mess, and tried to make friends with me rather as he might have jollied along a particularly green subaltern2. On the afternoon of his arrival, he carried me by my feet and suspended me over the water-butt in the back garden. As I hung, screaming, over this black soup of mosquito larvae, my mother rushed out of the house to my defence. ‘Only a game,’ said my father. ‘We were just having a game.’ But I knew otherwise. This terrifying Visigoth3, fresh from the slaughter, had tried to murder me before we’d even reached teatime. I ran bleating to my mother, begging her to send this awful man back to the war where he so clearly belonged. My father’s fears were also confirmed: unless something pretty firm in the way of paternal influence was applied here and now, I was going to turn out a first-rate milksop, an insufferable little wet. I was frightened of him. I was afraid of his irritable, headachey silences; afraid of his sudden gusts of good humour; afraid of his inscrutable, untouchable air; and afraid, most of all, of his summary beatings, which were administered court-martial fashion in his study. A toy left overnight in the path of the car got me a spanking; so did being unable to remember whether I had said ‘thank you’ to my hostess after a four-year-old’s birthday party. He introduced me to a new cold world of duties and punishments – a vastly complicated, unforgiving place in which the best one could hope for was to pass without comment. Perhaps my father had cause to believe that the world really was like this, and was simply doing his best to rescue me from the fool’s paradise unwittingly created for me by my mother. I felt then that he was just jealous of my intimacy with her, and was taking his revenge. For weeks after the war he hung about the house and garden. He clacked out letters to potential employers on my mother’s old portable Olivetti. He practised golf swings. He rambled round and round the birdbath in his demob suit. He made gunnery calculations on his slide rule. I played gooseberry – a sullen child lurking in passageways, resentfully spying on my parents. I felt cuckolded4, and showed it. When my father eventually found a job, his work took him out of the house most evenings: when he drove off I would try to seduce my mother back to the old days of our affair. We listened to Dick Barton on the wireless over cocoa, and then I would launch into an avalanche of bright talk, hoping to buy back her attention and distract © UCLES 2009

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5 her from the clock. I felt her joy at having my father home, and I think I did sense her distress at my conspicuous failure to share it. I also felt a twinge or two of shame at our snugness. From my father, I was beginning to learn that my behaviour was distinctly unmanly, and these cocoon-evenings were clouded with guilt. When my 50 father said, as he did several times a week, ‘You are going to have to learn to stand up for yourself, old boy,’ I shrank from the idea but knew it to be unarguably right. But my father and I grew grim with the responsibilities that had been placed on our shoulders. I think we both felt helpless. He had inherited a role in life which he could only conceive in the most old-fashioned terms: he had to become a Victorian 55 husband and father, a pillar of the family, the heir to the fading Raban fortunes. I had inherited him. And we both chafed under the weight of these legacies, both of us too weak to carry them off with any style. He bullied me, and he in turn was bullied by the family dead. If I feared him, he had Furies of his own – the ancestors and elderly 60 relations who had set him standards by which he could do nothing except fail. 1demob

suit – suit issued to a soldier leaving the army subaltern – inexperienced officer 3Visigoth – member of a warrior tribe 4cuckolded – betrayed 2green

© UCLES 2009

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In the extract below, the bombing of a town is described. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Basing your answer closely on the language and style of the original extract, write a description (between 120–150 words) of another dramatic event (real or imaginary) where a peaceful environment is suddenly disturbed. [10]

The town far below was asleep. It lay pillowed on the secure shore; violet shadows leaned against its pale buildings; there was no movement in its streets; no smoke from its chimneys. The ships lay still in the deep close harbour; their masts rose out of the green water like reeds thickly growing with the great funnels and turrets of the warships like strange plants among them. The sea beyond the strong breakwater was smooth as a silver plate; there was no sound anywhere. The aeroplane descended in slow spirals upon the town, tracing an invisible path through the pearly air. It was as if a messenger from heaven were descending upon the people of the town who dreamed. Suddenly a scream burst from the throat of the church tower. For an instant the sky seemed to shiver with the stab of that wail of terror rising from the great stone throat. Surely the town would waken in a panic – and yet, no, nothing stirred. There was no sound or movement in any street and the sky gave back no sign. The aeroplane continued to descend until it looked from the church tower like a mosquito; then there dropped something from it that flashed through the air, a spark of fire. Silence had followed the scream. The aeroplane, superbly poised now in the spotless sky, watched the buildings below it as if waiting for some strange thing to happen; and presently, as if exorcised by the magic eye of the insect, a cluster of houses collapsed, while a roar burst from the wounded earth. Still, the neat surface of the wide city showed no change, save in that one spot where the houses had fallen. How slow to wake the town was! The daylight brightened, painting the surfaces of the buildings with pale rose and primrose. The clean empty streets cut the city into firm blocks of buildings; the pattern of the town spread out on the earth, with its neat edges marked by walls and canals, gleamed like a varnished map. Then the siren in the church tower screamed again; its wail followed by a second roar and a ragged hole yawned in the open square in the middle of the town. The aeroplane circles smoothly, watching. And at last signs of terror and bewilderment appeared in the human ant hill beneath it. Distracted midgets swarmed from the houses: this way and that they scurried, diving into openings in the ground: swift armoured beetles rushed through the streets; white jets of steam rose from the locomotives in the station yard: the harbour throbbed. Again there was a great noise, and a cloud of debris was flung into the air as from a volcano, and flames leapt after it. A part of the wharf with a shed on it reeled drunkenly into the sea with a splash. The white beach was crawling now with vermin; the human hive swarmed out on to the sands. Their eyes were fixed on the evil flying thing in the sky and at each explosion they fell on their faces like frantic worshippers. The aeroplane cavorted, whirling after its tail in an ecstasy of self-gratification. Down among the sand dunes it could see the tiny black figures of men at the antiaircraft guns. These were the defenders of the town; they had orders to shoot to death a mosquito floating in boundless heaven. The little clouds that burst in the sunlight were like materialised kisses. © UCLES 2009

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7 The face of the city had begun to show a curious change. Scars appeared on it like the marks of smallpox and as these thickened on its trim surface, it seemed as if it were being attacked by an invisible and gigantic beast, who was tearing and gnawing it with claws and teeth. Gashes appeared in its streets, long wounds 50 with ragged edges. Helpless, spread out to the heavens, it grimaced with mutilated features. Nevertheless the sun rose, touching the aeroplane with gold, and the aeroplane laughed. It laughed at the convulsed face of the town, at the beach crawling with vermin, at the ant people swarming through the gates of the city along the white 55 roads; it laughed at the warships moving out of the harbour one by one in stately procession, the mouths of their guns gaping helplessly in their armoured sides. With a last flick of its glittering wings, it darted downward defiant, dodging the kisses of shrapnel, luring them, teasing them, playing with them: then, its message delivered, its sport over, it flew up and away in the sunshine and disappeared. A speck in the 60 infinite sky, then nothing – and the town was left in convulsions.

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2 Answer two questions.

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The following passage describes the writer’s experience in North America when he tries to locate the mysterious creature known as Bigfoot. His guide – who wishes to be known only as M.F. – shows him the area in which the creatures supposedly live. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) In spite of his promise to the guide (M.F.) not to reveal the sacred place, the writer sends an excited letter to a colleague relating his experiences. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening section (between 120-150 words) of the letter. [10] I found the gentleman to be pleasant, friendly, down to earth and of obvious intelligence. He immediately pulled the tooth out of his pocket. It did resemble a human canine, or eye-tooth, only about three times as large. I examined it and noted the obvious authenticity and great antiquity of the object, taking several photographs. It was complete with most of the root system still intact. The outer edges were very slightly serrated, almost imperceptibly, which I found most unusual. He viewed the tooth as a sacred object, he had told me during one of our previous phone conversations, and he would consent to no DNA testing because to do this would mean that at least a partial destruction of the tooth would occur. He could never allow that to happen. Nor would he allow it to depart his possession in any way or for any length of time. As a matter of fact he had informed me that he didn’t really care at all to try and prove the existence of these creatures to anyone. They had always been a fact of life to his people. Evidence of his Cherokee heritage was strewn about his yard, flower beds and doorsteps, and worn proudly around his neck. These creatures were the “Old People of the Forest,” he told me, and their reality caused no controversy except to the whites. It would be amusing if not for the fact that in their ignorance, the logging and mining of the white man was causing the rapid desecration and destruction of the Bigfoot’s habitat – land considered sacred by the Indians since the beginning of history. “Can you show me where they lived?” I asked. There was daylight left. He asked me if I cared to take a ride. M.F.’s story was an interesting one. He had first been exposed to the creatures while growing up in the Spottsville Reed areas, although at least two earlier generations of his family had their own tales of sightings and strange happenings. He remembered his great-grandfather recounting how he had run outside one night after he’d heard some kind of commotion to see one of the “old people” carrying off two of his full grown sows, one under each arm, like they were piglets. It swiftly made its escape even though the pigs weighed about 200 pounds each! “Pull over here,” M.F. said as we approached a medium-sized muddy creek at the Old Bell, Ash Flats location. I pulled over and we got out. This was the place, he told me, that he and scores of friends had witnessed these creatures feeding countless times. According to him, they didn’t seem to mind being watched. Unless someone got out of the car. Then they would all rush into the creek and be gone in an instant. They travelled the creeks, he claimed. The water would wash away the tracks and they were excellent swimmers if the water was up. After photographing the location, I asked him if he could take me to the place where he found the tooth. He said nothing for several seconds as he carefully considered the request. I was beginning to think that I had overstepped my bounds,

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3 as it were, when he looked up. He would take me there, he answered, if I promised never to disclose the location. It was a sacred place, he explained – a burial place of the Cherokee people and home to other powerful legendary beings as well as the “old people”. I agreed and we got back into the truck. We travelled a short distance from the Ash Flats area and stopped. “Follow me...” he said, and started up a thickly forested ridge. Although he was nearly 60 years old, he ascended the steep terrain as nimbly as a jack rabbit and, after a short but vigorous trek, we crested another large hill and stopped. “Look freely,” he said. “Take pictures, but nothing else.” I looked around. We stood at the rim of a forested ridge which wound around the area like a dark circle, forming an impressive natural amphitheatre. The bottom of the “bowl” formation was mostly clear and somehow comfortable looking even now. All around me were graves, stacked in layers, some ancient beyond reckoning. Many were marked with stones onto which Cherokee petroglyphs* and letters were carved. I had hunted Indian artifacts nearly all my life, but had never seen a single stone in Henderson County bearing intact Native American images or writing. Now I was surrounded by them.

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4 2

The following passage is an extract from a speech in which the speaker outlines her concerns about the ways in which world trade is organised. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Basing your answer closely on the style and language of the original speech, write the opening to a speech (between 120-150 words) which demands action for another political or social cause (which may be real or fictional). [10] We are in Seattle arguing for a world trade system that puts basic human rights and the environment at its core. We have the most powerful corporations of the world ranged against us. They own the media that informs us – or fails to inform us. And they probably own the politicians too. It’s enough to make anybody feel a little edgy. So here’s a question for the world trade negotiators. Who is the system you are lavishing so much attention on supposed to serve? We can ask the same question of the gleaming towers of Wall Street or the City of London – and the powerful men and women who tinker with the money system which drives world trade. Who is this system for? Let’s look more closely. Every day, the gleaming towers of high finance oversee a global flow of two trillion dollars through their computer screens. And the terrifying thing is that only three per cent of that – that’s three hundredths – has anything to do with trade at all. Let alone free trade between equal communities. It has everything to do with money. The great global myth being that the current world trade system is for anything but money. The other 97 per cent of the two trillion is speculation. It is froth – but froth with terrifying power over people’s lives. Reducing powerless communities’ access to basic human rights can make money, but not for them. But then the System isn’t designed for them. It isn’t designed for you and me either. We all of us, rich and poor, have to live with the insecurity caused by an out of control global casino with a built-in bias towards instability. Because it is instability that makes money for the money-traders. I spend much of every year travelling around the world, talking to people in the front line of globalisation: women, community farmers, children. I know how unrealistic these myths are. Not just in developing countries but right under our noses. Like the small farmers of the USA, 500 of whom go out of business every week. Half a century ago there were a million black farmers in the US. Now there are 1800. Globalisation means that the subsidies go to the big farms, while the small family farms – the heart of so many American communities – go to the wall. Or the dark, cramped factories where people work for a pittance for 12 hour days without a day off. “The workers are not allowed to talk to each other and they didn’t allow us to go to the bathroom,” says one Asian worker in that garment factory. Not in Seoul. Not in Sao Paulo. But in San Francisco. We have a world trading system that is blind to this kind of injustice. And as the powers of governments shrink this system is, in effect, our new unelected, uncontrollable world government. One that outlaws our attempts to make things better. According to the WTO*, we don’t have the right to discriminate between tuna caught without killing dolphins and tuna caught by those who don’t care, don’t worry and don’t try.

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5 According to the WTO, we have no right to hoard patented seeds from one harvest to plant the following year. 45 According to the WTO, we have no right to discriminate against beef with growth hormones. According to the WTO, the livelihoods of the small-scale banana farmers of the Windward Islands are worthless – now facing ruin as the WTO favours the big US exporters. 50 The truth is that the WTO, and the group of unelected trade officials who run it, are now the world’s highest court, with the right to overturn local laws and safety regulations wherever they say it ‘interferes with trade’. This is world government by default, but it is a blind government. It looks at the measurements of money, but it can’t see anything else. It can recognise profits 55 and losses, but it deliberately turns its face away from human rights, child labour or keeping the environment viable for future generations. It is government without heart, and without heart you find the creativity of the human spirit starts to dwindle too. * WTO: World Trade Organisation

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6 3

The following passage describes the writer’s visit to a restaurant. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same restaurant receives a very favourable review from another writer. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening (between 120-150 words) of the review. [10] There is something fundamentally sad about a bad restaurant, especially one where the people who toil there – from the overworked chef to the hapless waiter – are trying so hard. Perhaps it provokes a realization of the failures we often make of our once-promising lives. We all had potential once, but look where we are now. And in many cases, it’s not for lack of trying. Instead, we’re faced with the fact that our best may simply not be good enough. These were the thoughts I had at the Thomas Street Bistro as a depressing blob of cream cheese, speckled with desiccated salmon and surrounded by six Ritz crackers, whispered to me about my own mortality. The Thomas Street Bistro is less like a restaurant and more like the home of a friend who fancies himself a cook. Six tables crowd into what would be the living room; the newly painted walls are adorned with artwork that yearns to look Mediterranean and tries way too hard for a certain carefree joie de vivre. Instead of a cosmopolitan French brasserie*, the room reminded me of my great-aunt’s stifling parlor. Mismatched china and paper napkins complete the picture of a dinner party gone wrong. After we ordered, the owner/chef (who was also filling in as waiter that evening) warned us that he was a bit behind and he hoped we weren’t in a hurry because we were going to be there “a long time”. He wasn’t kidding. After an hour and a half, we’d gotten through a decent lentil soup and grazed on a buttery tahini and some damp feta with fresh tomatoes. And then our waiter brought out a “free appetizer” he described as follows: “It’s salmon, smoked, from Alaska. With cream cheese. Sorry.” I’m sure he was referring to the time it was taking to prepare our main courses, but to me his sorrow seemed to run deeper. And though I could commiserate with the failure, I couldn’t get over the fact that on this cold night we had actually left our warm house, which was stocked with all sorts of tasty treats, and ventured into what was essentially a stranger’s home for a well-intentioned, but poorly cooked meal. Caught between tears and laughter, I ate a Ritz cracker. The next course came, as I feared it would (I was slipping into a delirious depression by this time). My wife sawed away at her pineapple chicken to little avail, while I fixated on the one flaccid spear of asparagus sitting next to what she described as a “kind of salty” pile of white rice. Meanwhile, my lamb and couscous tagine had the look of the Sahara to it and was correspondingly arid. Despite a hint of complex spiciness in the couscous, the lamb itself was overcooked, tough, and tasting more of the refrigerator than the fertile fields. We pushed the food around our plates, trying in vain to make it seem like we’d eaten more than we had, before asking sheepishly for the rest to be boxed up. Though dessert comes with every meal, when told it would take “some time” for it to be ready, we muttered apologies, paid the bill, and walked out into the rain.

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7 Out on the street, I wondered: Why did I feel so guilty, so demoralized? I think now it was the pathos of the place. I go out to dinner to revel in the fleeting, golden moment when I am responsible for nothing more than appreciating the bounty of this world. All this light and sound and flavor. I love pretending, even just for a few hours, that it will never end. The Thomas Street Bistro did not allow me that fantasy.

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*brasserie: a small restaurant

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2 Answer two questions.

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In the following passage, the writer senses that her outlook on life may not always be right. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) After these events, Olivia writes a letter to another friend about the writer’s visit. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening (between 120–150 words) of the letter. [10] What a huge palaver1 it is, going on holiday. What a wrench, leaving one’s dogs, home and daughter and plunging into God knows what. But how grim it was here: the work, the ghastly dog walkies, the daily chores, the dreary, sultry weather. So I went off on the train to France. I forced myself. It may sound like nothing to you more adventurous holidaymakers, but to me, a budding agoraphobic2 who hyperventilates if she has to go further than the local park, it was a mammoth breakthrough. A triumph. Until the train stopped outside Paris for nearly two hours. Then it was a big mistake. I had a connection to catch. All my fears were justified. Why had I done this? What madness. Holidays are for people who work from 8am to 8pm daily for months on end. I just lie about scribbling and diddling with dogs. My whole life is a holiday. I need never have bothered. However, I met old friends on the train, I caught my connection by a whisker and fell asleep, emotionally drained, in my couchette, until a voice woke me. “Carcassonne,” it called out. My stop. Panic stations. I grabbed my baggage and fell onto the platform, shoeless, breathless, T-shirt awry, brassiere dangling, because I had loosened it for comfort. What comfort? Why expect any? There would be none on this holiday. I crawled to the cafe, the breakfast was heaven, Olivia arrived, we collected our hire car, we drove off along the sunny road, a few carefree moments passed, but then, suddenly, uproar. The junction was alive with shouting, cursing, pointing and beeping French motorists. What could be wrong now? Our front tyre was completely flat. If anyone had asked me, I’d have said at that point that my cup was half empty, but then a handsome, cheery young man jumped out of his car and changed our tyre for us. “Cup half full,” said Olivia strictly. And it was for a few moments, until we got lost in the one-way system. Then it emptied. Round and round we went, time passed, so did the same roundabouts, until a saintly young woman led us back to the hire place for a new car. We set off again. “Cup half full,” said Olivia. She did this through our holidays – a sort of behavioural therapy for me, a training in positivity, because I like to expect the absolute worst. That way, one is never disappointed. But darling Olivia was always full of hope. We would get there, the sun would shine, we probably wouldn’t crash and die, this or that road might be the right one. Perhaps Olivia was right and my philosophy of life was wrong. The path ahead is not necessarily strewn with booby traps; buckets of ordure3 were not guaranteed to empty over my head. The sky stayed blue, the air was fresh, the vineyards stretched for miles, we found golden beaches and azure pools, youths apologised for blocking the pavement with their bikes and smiled pleasantly, and did not brandish knives and pitbulls.4 It was all worth it again. Olivia’s house was heavenly, its terrace shaded by vines, the dinky, ancient village streets were cracked and cobbled, a luscious riot of wild flowers allowed to sprout from walls, with not the slightest whiff of health and safety. What heaven to get away from the fusspot English. At least, it was for a bit, until we tried to visit a mountain lake up a narrow, winding road, which got higher and windier, with sheer, drillion-foot drops and blind hairpin bends, and the road too narrow to turn back. What peril. I longed for health and safety. The regrets returned. This holiday was cursed. Why had I not stayed at © UCLES 2010

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3 home on the lovely flat plains of Holloway? Why come here and terrify myself? Why 45 drive up a near perpendicular slope in a prickling sweat, with breathing difficulties, shaking, snivelling and calling out weedily for my dead mother to help me. This was it. Cup completely empty, but Olivia remained cheery. Miraculous. “Take your time,” she said calmly. “Cup half full. Breathe deeply.” And sure enough, we found a wide bit in which to turn round. And here I am, back home, alive. Olivia and I are still friends, 50 the dogs and daughter survived, the house is still standing, there are no love letters on the mat, only bills. Outside, the rain continues. Why didn’t I stay longer? 1palaver:

fuss

2agoraphobic:

someone with a fear of going out sewage 4pitbulls: fierce dogs 3ordure:

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4 2

In this extract from a ghost story, the spirits of a deceased couple return to the house they once lived in, searching for the love they once had there. The current owners of the house are aware of the couple’s presence. (a) Basing your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract, write a beginning for the story (between 120–150 words). [10] (b) Compare the style and language of your piece with the style and language of the original extract. [15]

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure – a ghostly couple. “Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too.” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered. “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.” But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass. But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling – what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat softly. “The treasure buried; the room …,” the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure? A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly. “The Treasure yours.” The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy. “Here we slept,” she says. And he adds, “Kisses without number.” “Waking in the morning —” “Silver between the trees —” “Upstairs —” “In the garden —” “When summer came —” “In winter snowtime —” The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart. Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. “Look,” he breathes. “Sound asleep. Love upon their lips.” Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy. © UCLES 2010

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5 “Safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “Long years —” he sighs. “Again you found me.” “Here,” she murmurs, “sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure —” Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. “Safe! safe! safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry, “Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.” 50

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6 3

The speech below was delivered by George Bush, former president of the USA, after the devastation caused to New Orleans by a hurricane in 2005. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Write the opening of a speech (between 120–150 words) in which the same leader addresses the nation about a real or imaginary disaster elsewhere in the world, basing it closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

Good evening. I am speaking to you from the city of New Orleans – nearly empty, still partly underwater and waiting for life and hope to return. Eastward from Lake Pontchartrain, across the Mississippi coast, to Alabama and into Florida, millions of lives were changed in a day by a cruel and wasteful storm. In the aftermath, we have seen fellow citizens left stunned and uprooted, searching for loved ones, and grieving for the dead and looking for meaning in a tragedy that seems so blind and random. We have also witnessed the kind of desperation no citizen of this great and generous nation should ever have to know – fellow Americans calling out for food and water, vulnerable people left at the mercy of criminals who had no mercy, and the bodies of the dead lying uncovered and untended in the street. These days of sorrow and outrage have also been marked by acts of courage and kindness that make all Americans proud. Coast Guard and other personnel rescued tens of thousands of people from flooded neighborhoods. Religious congregations and families have welcomed strangers as brothers and sisters and neighbors. In the community of Chalmette, when two men tried to break into a home, the owner invited them to stay and took in fifteen other people who had no place to go. At Tulane Hospital for Children, doctors and nurses did not eat for days so patients could have food, and eventually carried the patients on their backs up eight flights of stairs to helicopters. Many first responders were victims themselves – wounded healers, with a sense of duty greater than their own suffering. When I met Steve Scott of the Biloxi Fire Department, he and his colleagues were conducting a house-to-house search for survivors. Steve told me this: “I lost my house, and I lost my cars, but I still got my family, and I still got my spirit.” Across the Gulf Coast, among people who have lost much and suffered much and given to the limit of their power, we are seeing that same spirit: a core of strength that survives all hurt, a faith in God no storm can take away and a powerful American determination to clear the ruins and build better than before. Tonight so many victims of the hurricane and the flood are far from home and friends and familiar things. You need to know that our whole nation cares about you, and in the journey ahead you are not alone. To all who carry a burden of loss, I extend the deepest sympathy of our country. To every person who has served and sacrificed in this emergency, I offer the gratitude of our country. And tonight I also offer this pledge of the American people: throughout the area hit by the hurricane, we will do what it takes. We will stay as long as it takes to help citizens rebuild their communities and their lives. And all who question the future of the Crescent City need to know: there is no way to imagine America without New Orleans, and this great city will rise again. The work of rescue is largely finished. The work of recovery is moving forward. In nearly all of Mississippi, electric power has been restored. Trade is starting to return to the Port of New Orleans, and agricultural shipments are moving down the Mississippi River.

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7 In the life of this nation, we have often been reminded that nature is an awesome force and that all life is fragile. We are the heirs of men and women who lived through those first terrible winters at Jamestown and Plymouth, who rebuilt Chicago after a great fire, and San Francisco after a great earthquake, who reclaimed the prairie from the dust bowl of the 1930s. Every time, the people of this land have come back from fire, flood, and storm to build anew – and to build better than what we had before. Americans have never left our destiny to the whims of nature, and we will not start now. These trials have also reminded us that we are often stronger than we know with the help of grace and one another. They remind us of a hope beyond all pain and death – a God who welcomes the lost to a house not made with hands. And they remind us that we are tied together in this life, in this nation, and that the despair of any touches us all. I know that when you sit on the steps of a porch where a home once stood or sleep on a cot in a crowded shelter, it is hard to imagine a bright future. But that future will come.

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2 Answer two questions.

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The passage below describes the writer’s experiences on a cycling holiday. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The writer and his friend decide to try another type of holiday elsewhere involving a different form of transport. Write the opening (between 120-150 words) of the article, basing it closely on the language and style of the original passage. [10] There was a point in our off-road cycling adventure across Sardinia when I wondered whether we might be the first ever slapstick double-act in the history of this most demanding of leisure activities. It came on our first full day away from the smooth security of tarmac. “At the Y-junction, take the trail to the right,” proclaimed my friend Tony, who had insisted on taking on the map-reading duties. Craning our necks to the right, we could see a terrifying trail soaring vertiginously up what seemed an almost sheer cliff, strewn with massive, looming boulders and punctuated by treacherous patches of loose scree.1 For one gruelling stretch, we had to claw our way upwards on our hands and knees while balancing our bikes precariously on our shoulders. Sweating and panting, we had almost reached the summit when I heard Tony consulting the maps again: “At the first Y-junction, take the trail to the left,” he yelled out. “I was reading the wrong bit. That should have been to the left…” Peering down, we could see the trail to the left easing down gently into the valley, a leisurely freewheel winding restfully into the forest. I can’t repeat exactly what was said as we clambered back down the cliff-face, except to confirm that the word “eejit”,2 prefixed by colourful adjectives, featured prominently. “Well, we did say that we were looking for something more challenging this time,” Tony replied sheepishly. “Whatever you say about it, this is definitely challenging…” Yes, but not quite in the way that we had imagined. After our implausibly ambitious odyssey from Budapest to Krakow across the Tatra mountains of Slovakia the previous year, we were looking to step up the level of difficulty. On that occasion, there had been grave doubts about whether two podgy Irish blokes could possibly conquer some of the most gruelling cycle routes in the world. But with a lot of unflattering Lycra and a good deal of bluster, we had somehow managed to pull it off. Taking the podgy cyclist show off-road seemed like the obvious next step. And Sardinia, with its gleaming coastline and rugged interior seemed like the perfect destination. The route, known as the Coast to Coast, would begin at the south-western extremity before rearing diagonally across the island, intersecting the formidable Gennargentu range, the mountainous backbone of Sardinia, and terminating almost 400km away just below the crass resorts of the Costa Smeralda. Most of the journey would be on mule-tracks, mining trails and wilderness. For the first time, we would enjoy the luxury of luggage transfer, with our rucksacks shuttled by van to the next stop, as well as a guide to offer advice and support. But for the most part, we would be on our own, battling the Sardinian elements in the cycling adventure of a lifetime. We flew into Sardinia’s capital, Cagliari, and were met by our guide, Renato, whose lithe physique, honed by mountain-trails, made us both instinctively suck in our bellies: “So, you’ve only ever cycled on tarmac?” he purred, as he whisked us off to the starting point, the seaside hamlet of Calasetta. “This should be very interesting…”

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3 The hilltop hotel was packed with grizzled, leather-clad German bikers, with their chrome-spangled Harleys lined up outside. They glowered from the shadows as Renato handed over the maps and offered a few handy off-roading tips: “Hold on to the handlebars,” he said, without a flicker of humour. “And try not to fall off…” In the morning, we discovered that the bikers had let the air out of our tyres. “Hell’s Angels sure ain’t what they used to be!” said Tony, pumping them back up furiously. Once re-inflated, we powered up the Gulf of Gonnesa with cliff-edge panoramas and rocky gobbets of islands spat into the bay. Then we meandered through the eerie, abandoned mining town of Ingurtosu and took up our positions at the beginning of our first test of off-road mettle. The scene couldn’t have been more dramatic and primordial. On one side lay a fat, pot-bellied dune named Piscinas, looking like a wedge of burning gold thrust between shimmering sea and crisp blue sky. And sweeping away in front, like a tract of Martian landscape, was the extraordinary valley of the Rio Irvi. Stained an angry vermilion by the iron ore deposits in the surrounding hillsides, the river looked like a stream of red-hot lava flowing through the sand and gorse. “Follow the trail down into the valley,” read Tony from the directions. “Start counting. You should cross the river 21 times…”

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rock debris Irish pronunciation of ‘idiot’

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The passage below is from a story which describes how a husband and wife grow apart. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Before the husband moves out, he writes a letter to the friend he is going to stay with. In it, he expresses his thoughts and feelings about his wife and their marriage. Write the opening (120-150 words) of the letter, basing it closely on the material of the original passage. [10] She couldn’t remember when she began to envy her husband’s dreams. Maybe around the fourth week of pregnancy, after he’d moved out and then moved back again. Or maybe around the twentieth week, when he wanted to name the baby after himself, and she said no. The truth is, she didn’t remember because the condition of envy had become a chronic background noise. Her husband had always had baroque and complex dreams and she’d never minded. Now her envy surrounded them both like a hot electric fence. She could see her husband clearly. He was blond, bearded, surrounded by the haze of his dream. He woke up, propped himself up on one elbow, looking slightly disoriented. She didn’t ask to hear the dream. He told her. This morning his dream was about time travel. He had visited a country where people still thought the earth was flat and never traveled far because they were afraid they were going to fall off. Since he knew the earth was round, he convinced them otherwise, but when they started to disappear over the horizon, it seemed he had made a mistake. She leaned forward, looking encouraged – maybe this was a dream of failed adventure, after all. But no. It turned out that when everyone disappeared over the horizon, they were really flying. Her husband could fly, too: as he flew, he saw the entire country below him. Thatched roofs. Children with hoops. Quaint little streets. “A fairyland,” he said, “just like Disney.” He often had flying dreams. They were giddy, hallucinatory, perilous. She lay in bed listening and her envy surrounded them. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nothing,” she answered. She smiled, concealing her envy, but he caught it. “Just life,” she reassured him. In a sense, she was telling the truth. Their faucets1 leaked. Their washing machine overflowed. Yesterday they’d bought two dozen minuscule T-shirts that turned out to be for nine-month-olds, not newborns. Lists of names for the baby lined their kitchen wall and they couldn’t agree on any of them. But in another sense, the truth was only her envy – not any kind of envy, but dream envy, an affliction of trolls, gremlins, bats – sad, dreamless beings relegated to caves. A dangerous omen. An unhappy and violent passion. Her midwife had advised her of this, pressing into her hands herbs, amulets, arcane books, a dream pillow filled with lavender and sage. Dreams are essential, she’d said. You must work to get yours back. Her husband leaned over and touched her belly. “Whatever happened to the good old days?” he asked. It was something he’d been asking for a while, a compelling, urgent question. “Nothing,” she said. “They’re here right now.” The baby chose this moment to shift inside of her. An obscure dolphin. A rumbling miniature subway. He was always, without a doubt, the most important person in the room, an unruly character, waiting for the chance to speak. On ultrasound he was the size of a kitten, his transparent heart no bigger than a dime.2 After they saw him, her husband drew a heart on her stomach and kissed it. See. I’m being good now.

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5 Today he turned to her, not unkindly. “You resent my dreams,” he said. “You begrudge me this little corner of my mind.” “Of course I don’t.” “But you do. You begrudge me. I know it.” She said nothing. Under her pillow, she could feel the velvet dream pillow the midwife had given her. It was prickly, filled with sage and lavender. The sage had come from the Bolivian mountains. The midwife found it last summer at the witch’s market in La Paz. “I’m being exemplary these days,” he continued. “I’ve found a crib.3 I went with you to buy those ridiculous T-shirts and today I’m going to help you return them. I’ve even gone to those damn birthing classes with what’s-her-name.” “Laurel Moonflower,” she supplied. Laurel Moonflower was the midwife. Her husband didn’t like her. He said she was a New Age parody. “Laurel Moonflower,” he agreed. “I’ve gone there and I’ve sat there and I’ve admired her models of the pelvis. I’ve chanted atonal chants. I’ve offered prayers. I’ve rubbed your back. And you begrudge me my dreams.” I don’t begrudge you, I blame you. She didn’t say this, but thought it. The day after he’d moved out, to a lawyer friend’s place on a street with the improbable name of Taurus, she’d woken from a dream about being trapped in the city of Dresden during the second world war. She was in a house, standing by a cabinet full of fragile china, when a bomb fell. Cup after cup after cup shattered in slow motion. A miniature china shepherdess was severed from her sheep. Plates decorated with flowers crashed. This had been her last dream. Now her nights were a blank canvas.

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1faucets :

taps a small coin 3crib : a baby’s bed 2dime :

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The passage below contains some of the final diary entries of Captain Robert Scott, leader of a group of explorers, in the early twentieth century. They were narrowly beaten to the South Pole by a team of Norwegian explorers. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) One of the other explorers in Captain Scott’s team survives the journey and later writes a newspaper article about his experiences, and about Captain Scott’s leadership. Write the opening (between 120-150 words) of the article, basing it closely on the material of the original passage. [10] Wednesday, January 17 – Camp 69. T.-22 degrees at start. Night -21 degrees. The Pole. Yes, but under very different circ*mstances from those expected. We have had a horrible day – add to our disappointment a head wind 4 to 5, with a temperature -22 degrees, and companions labouring on with cold feet and hands. We started at 7.30, none of us having slept much after the shock of our 5 discovery. We followed the Norwegian sledge tracks for some way; as far as we make out there are only two men. In about three miles we passed two small cairns.1 Then the weather overcast, and the tracks being increasingly drifted up and obviously going too far to the West, we decided to make straight for the Pole according to our calculations. At 12.30 Evans had such cold hands we camped for lunch – an 10 excellent ‘week-end’. To-night little Bowers is laying himself out to get sights in terrible difficult circ*mstances; the wind is blowing hard, T.-21 degrees, and there is that curious damp, cold feeling in the air which chills one to the bone in no time. We have been descending again, I think, but there looks to be a rise ahead; otherwise there is very little that is different from the awful monotony of past days. Great God! 15 this is an awful place and terrible enough for us to have laboured to it without the reward of priority. Well, it is something to have got here, and the wind may be our friend to-morrow. Now for the run home and a desperate struggle. I wonder if we can do it. Thursday morning, January 18 – We have just arrived at this tent, 2 miles from 20 1 our camp, therefore about 1 2 miles from the Pole. In the tent we find a record of five Norwegians having been here. We carried the Union Jack about 34 of a mile north with us and left it on a piece of stick as near as we could fix it. Well, we have turned our back now on the goal of our ambition and must face our 800 miles of solid dragging – and good-bye to most of the day-dreams! 25 Saturday, February 17 – A very terrible day. Evans looked a little better after a good sleep, and declared, as he always did, that he was quite well. He started in his place on the traces, but half an hour later worked his ski shoes adrift, and had to leave the sledge. The surface was awful, the soft recently fallen snow clogging the ski and runners 30 at every step, the sledge groaning, the sky overcast, and the land hazy. We stopped after about one hour, and Evans came up again, but very slowly. Half an hour later he dropped out again on the same plea. He asked Bowers to lend him a piece of string. I cautioned him to come as quickly as he could, and he answered cheerfully as I thought. We had to push on, and the remainder of us were forced to pull very 35 hard, sweating heavily. Abreast the Monument Rock we stopped, and seeing Evans a long way astern, I camped for lunch. There was no alarm at first, and we prepared tea and our own meal, consuming the latter. After lunch, and Evans still not appearing, we looked out, to see him still afar 40 off. By this time we were alarmed, and all four started back on ski. I was first to reach the poor man and shocked at his appearance; he was on his knees with clothing © UCLES 2010

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7 disarranged, hands uncovered and frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes. Asked what was the matter, he replied with a slow speech that he didn’t know, but thought he must have fainted. We got him on his feet, but after two or three steps he sank down again. He showed every sign of complete collapse. Wilson, Bowers, and I went back for the sledge, whilst Oates remained with him. When we returned he was practically unconscious, and when we got him into the tent quite comatose. He died quietly at 12.30 A.M. On discussing the symptoms we think he began to get weaker just before we reached the Pole, and that his downward path was accelerated first by the shock of his frostbitten fingers, and later by falls during rough travelling on the glacier, further by his loss of all confidence in himself. Wilson thinks it certain he must have injured his brain by a fall. It is a terrible thing to lose a companion in this way, but calm reflection shows that there could not have been a better ending to the terrible anxieties of the past week. 1cairns :

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piles of stones used as guides for travellers.

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2 Answer two questions.

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The passage below describes the writer’s exploration of the wreck of a ship called The Moldavia. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Continue the account (between 120-150 words), basing it closely on the language and style of the original passage. [10] This was it, my first deep dive… And not just any waters, oh no, this was doing it proper. This was the English Channel with big ships, potentially dreadful viz1 and strong currents. This was a dive that required major technical support, a dive that would use and need all the knowledge and experience that I had built up, one that had been carefully planned. Richard and I had been practising this type of dive for this very trip but this was the real thing and potentially very different from diving in a quarry. Oh, and we were a long way from land – a very long way. I was standing fully kitted and anxious on the dive platform of the dive boat Voyager, next to Richard Lockett, above some reasonably calm but slightly broody looking waters. We waited for the marker buoys.2 They appeared quickly and this was followed by the shout of ‘STAND BY’ from the skipper. This was it: we were ready to go. This was the moment for which we had travelled two hours from shore in a very slightly lumpy sea (which should have been very, very lumpy if the forecasted hurricane had decided to come our way). ‘GO’ came the shout and we were in. What a relief that moment is when you hit the cooling water with it taking the weight of the heavy twin tanks on my back and stage cylinder slung on my left hand side. Aaaahh, lovely. Just lovely. But, there is no time to linger, there is a wreck at the bottom of that line and we are eager to get to it. Quickly we give the signals to descend, let out the air from the drysuits and down we go. On the way we clip a tag with our names on it to a line – we will pick this up on our ascent and it acts as a signal that we have ascended. If ours is the last tag remaining then we take it and release the line. I’ve read about this system many times but never actually used it. It all adds to the newness and the excitement. Tag done we continue our descent. The light fades as we go but our eyes adjust and then there it is, the wreck appears below us and it is huge – bigger than anything I’ve seen in British waters – and the amazing thing is, I can see it; for miles in fact. The viz here really is very good with at least 10m. The Moldavia lies on her side and we hit the uppermost starboard side at about 32m. The previous pair of divers has reeled out a distance line from an exposed metal rib and, being a luminous yellow, it is very easy to spot, all the way down to the bed in fact – the viz really is good. A quick OK at this point (if not we can stay at this depth) with a self check as a monitor for any narcosis3 and we are over the drop and descending to our maximum depth. From here you can see into the wreck and we decide to swim along just chilling out. Using my extensive wreck diving skills I manage to identify a couple of capstans,4 which doesn’t really impress Richard, and I also spot metal, lots and lots of metal but hey, I’m a fish freak, it’s all the same to me. I do feel a little fuzzy from narcosis at this point but I relax, breathing steadily in and out and the feeling quickly passes, I’m now very ready to rock. At some point Richard spots one of the six-inch guns facing the sea bed and spends a little time looking at it – I don’t recall this, I must have been otherwise engaged. In my defence it was apparently well camouflaged from all the encrustation and after all, it was metal.

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3 As for wildlife, we see lots of fish – bib and pollack – gently swimming over the wreck and everywhere you look. And they look back at you. These aren’t the slowly cautious then confident specimens I’ve seen elsewhere – these guys just stare back 45 at you, a little disconcerting really… We make our ascent making deep stops as we go. The line suddenly becomes very busy and, with the bubbles coming up from divers below us, it becomes very difficult to see what the hell is going on… 1viz :

visibility (a diver’s word) buoys : floating globes to show the position of the wreck 3narcosis : dangerous build-up of gases in the blood 4capstans : equipment for winding ships’ cables 2marker

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The passage below describes a boy and his imagination. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The boy’s mother, concerned about her son’s behaviour and state of mind, writes to a friend expressing her thoughts and feelings. Write the opening (between 120-150 words) of the letter, basing it closely on the material of the original passage. [10] He sat with a blank look on his face, pale and black and green against the vivid paper cover, blasting Action! and Adventure! and sometimes Terror! or Romance! into the atmosphere in lurid red or blue or sharp yellow lettering. He sat still. Very still. Occasionally he would turn a page, with an almost undetectable move of the thumb. He was that way for a long time, breaking his trance every once in a while quickly to exchange the comic in hand for one in the bag. He was never without an open comic book for long, dropping the used issues on the ground, where they lay swollen with vibrance on the icy concrete. The daylight was dimmer when he looked up into the real world again and he blinked and shook his head quickly, like one newly awakened, shaking sleep from his mind. He rose slowly, painfully, like an arthritic. He gathered up his books and walked back past the bars, then across the tracks past the Circle K store and down the road. He passed a Chinese restaurant, its parking lot filling up for evening business. A group of young people hung around in front of it, getting out of their cars, not much older than he was. They were typical Baton Rouge youth: grinning young men in baseball caps with broad shoulders and cheeks and close-cropped hair. One had his arm around a girl with a painted face and a beautiful scraping false giggle. The boy stopped to watch them in the twilight, hiding himself in the pool of shadow by the side of the building. They shouted good-natured insults at each other in the cold, and went inside. They looked like angels. The boy walked on. It was almost dark when he got to the hobby shop. It was dark when he came back out of it, carrying a plastic bag with model paints and glue. He passed the Chinese restaurant again; the evening rush was in full swing. He took his headphones off. The light was bright and gold through the glass door, and he shaded his face with an arm as he walked by, squinted under it as he passed. God, it looked warm. It was warm, and busy. Had he walked inside he would have heard the low rumble of a thousand conversations, blending till no one word was intelligible. The sounds of people laughing, of small talk and ordering, the sounds of men telling women how beautiful their eyes were, of women telling women how all men were scum, of people complaining about the cold, of people complaining about the food, of people, people, people would all run together into a wonderful life-hum, sweet like night crickets and the rustle of leaves in the wind of summer, sweet like a woman’s sigh or the warm beat of her heart. But he passed by the door in the cold and back into the dark, hearing only the wind. There was no sense in warming up if he only had to face the cold again on the way home. He put the earphones back on; walked more quickly back past the Circle K and over the railroad tracks, through the leaf-mud on the side of River Road. The levee came into view, separating the dark road from the Mississippi river. He hurried past the entrance to a subdivision and past houses and houses, past people eating dinner behind lit windows. He took three turns (a right and two lefts) and then stopped at one of the houses. He didn’t go in. He walked around the back.

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5 The car-port light was on. A bicycle, more rust than dull, chipped red, sat against a moss-covered wall. It hadn’t been used for months. The moss had frozen to death. He passed through it, stopped when he got to a sliding glass door in the wall. The 45 curtains were down. He opened it and stepped into blackness. He placed his purchases on the floor beside him, keeping his feet planted firmly in place as if there were things on the ground he would rather not upset. He felt the wall for a switch. Then he spoke. He cried, “Let There Be Light!” 50 And there was. And it shone down upon a city and countryside in miniature, a model landscape of houses and green trees spread out on foam grass and dirt over three card tables, a desk and the tops of two dressers. The light was warm and golden, and revealed incredible microscopic detail in brilliant colour, down to a tiny orange Circle K sign in 55 front of the convenience store, down to the painted wavelets of a brilliant blue river, down to a shining red bicycle parked outside a tiny Chinese restaurant. The light shone down from a ceiling painted bright, brilliant blue, the same color as his eyes.

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In the following passage, the writer records her thoughts and feelings about celebrations she witnessed in Mumbai, India. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) A tourist who is staying in the same hotel as the writer has not enjoyed the festival and writes a letter of complaint to the local newspaper. Basing your answer closely on the material of the original extract, write the opening section (between 120–150 words) of the letter. [10] The entire city of Mumbai is under attack with the sound of thousands of fire crackers exploding. The repeated boom of the threepenny banger and the bang booms of thirty feet of unrolled penny bangers interspersed with the occasional threepenny banger, lays siege to the city. It is the Diwali festival and the air is acrid with the smoke from tons of fireworks. A nine-year-old girl in her sparkly Diwali costume walks onto a major road, and bends down to light a big bomberooney1. All cars, motorcycles and the rest screech to a halt until the boom subsides. NOBODY expresses any anger about being stopped, bombed, blasted or nearly blinded by the fireworks. Traffic veers through the smoke and around the exploding fireballs. Families on scooters cover their noses with scarves and tear through. They veer around the explosions, rogue firecrackers lying in wait to explode under whatever or whomever crosses their path. I am on the third floor of a hotel building and cannot hear the television in my room. The war of good over evil is in full swing. With names like Butterflies, Chut phut, crackling stars, Red force fire cracker, Delux chakree and Silver chip, hundreds of rupees are going up in smoke. During Diwali, the local newspaper prints a rate card of going prices in the fireworks market elevating them to commodity status along with gold and grain. These crackers make the Chinese celebration crackers sound like wind from vegetarian twins. The big boy bomberoonies are set in place and detonated by gangs of young men. Young women get in on the act but tend to deal more with the flowering type of firework and shun the banality of the ‘one boom and you are gone’ type. The ‘Graphics’ firework actually costs around 3000 rupees, and promises such as painting the sky in fire with the likeness of a gazelle are usually baseless. Nobody complains. The ‘180 and 200 shots’ firework delivers around the said amount of burst. Donations from the community fund the purchase of crackers and the more financial communities will find no sleep tonight. Neither will I, I feel. Someone has lit an entire thirty foot length of crackers out the back. The whole roll runs its explosive dominoes under a parked car. A couple of young lads have just lit a box the size of a small cooler in the middle of the road. The gathered young run for cover. Soon enough the box begins exploding comets into the sky, golden ones that whizz in a spiralling fashion into buildings; white lights that scream upwards and burst as white dwarf stars and others that flower out enough to cause two lanes of traffic to halt and wait. It takes a full minute or two for the box to discharge its magic of lights. I look back toward the hotel and the display of small oil-burning lamps around stick-on mandalas that had impressed me yesterday seem limp now. There are laws. Nothing that appears to hold up in court. Yes, it is recommended that the explosions cease by 10pm but judging by last night’s tossing and turning to the explosions at around 1am, I think rule number one is interpretive. Grown ups exhort their small children to keep off the road and let daddy light the dangerous cracker. I can see straight through daddy. He is back in shorts and the young boy is out! Those who are prone to asthma and have the money leave the city for the duration of Diwali. Five days of constant fireworks coat the humid city in a blanket of toxicity. Parties are on the go everywhere. On the famous Chowpatty beach, families are lighting the sky way past curfew. Police who have tried to enforce the curfew are dealt with by irate mothers and fathers. © UCLES 2010

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7 At least Sunday is the quietest day of the year and I literally mean day because it is 6.30pm now and the sounds of big bomberoonies and the wail of a siren blow the peace right off the street. 1bomberooney:

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2 Answer two questions.

1

The following passage is a magazine article in which the writer describes her experiences in Peru visiting local healers known as shamans. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later in life the writer tries another type of healing therapy (such as meditation). She writes another article about her experience. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

I will never forget what it was like. The overwhelming misery. The certainty of never-ending suffering. No one to help you, no way to escape. Everywhere I looked: darkness so thick that the idea of light seemed inconceivable. Suddenly, I swirled down a tunnel of fire, wailing figures calling out to me in agony, begging me to save them. Others tried to terrorize me. “You will never leave here,” they said. “Never. Never.” I found myself laughing at them. “I’m not scared of you,” I said. But the darkness became even thicker; the emotional charge of suffering nearly unbearable. I felt as if I would burst from heartbreak – everywhere I felt the agony of humankind, its tragedies, its hatreds, its sorrows. I reached the bottom of the tunnel and saw three thrones in a black chamber. Three shadowy figures sat in the chairs; in the middle was what I took to be the devil himself. “The darkness will never end,” he said. “It will never end. You can never escape this place.” “I can,” I replied. All at once, I willed myself to rise. I sailed up through the tunnel of fire, higher and higher until I broke through to a white light. All darkness immediately vanished. My body felt light, at peace. I floated among a beautiful spread of colors and patterns. Slowly my ayahuasca* vision faded. I returned to my body, to where I lay in the hut, insects calling from the jungle. “Welcome back,” the shaman said. The next morning, I discovered the impossible: the severe depression that had ruled my life since childhood had miraculously vanished. Giant blue butterflies flutter clumsily past our canoe. Parrots flee higher into treetops. The deeper we go into the Amazon jungle, the more I realize I can’t turn back. It has been a year since my last visit, and I’m here again in Peru traveling down the Río Aucayacu for more shamanistic healing. The truth is, I’m petrified to do it a second time around. But with shamanism – and with the drinking of ayahuasca in particular – I’ve learned that, for me, the worse the experience, the better the payoff. There is only one requirement for this work: you must be brave. You’ll be learning how to save yourself. The jungle camp where our shamanistic treatment will take place is some 200 miles (322 kilometers) from the nearest town, Iquitos, deep in the Peruvian Amazon. Beside me are the other four members of my tour. There is Winston, the biggest person I’ve ever met. Nearly seven feet tall (two meters), surely over 400 pounds (181 kilograms), he has a powerful body that could easily rip someone apart. I expect him to be a bodyguard or a bouncer; turns out he’s a security guard. But there is something else about him. Something less tangible. It seems to rest in the black circles beneath his eyes, the face that never smiles, the glances that immediately dismiss all they survey. Winston does not seem like a happy man.

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3 Then the others: Lisa, who has a master’s degree from Stanford and is now pursuing her doctorate in political theory at Duke University; Christy, who just quit her job counselling at-risk teens to travel around South America; and Katherine, Christy’s British friend. By all appearances, our group seems to be composed of ordinary citizens. No New Age energy healers. No pan-flute makers. No hippies or nouveau Druids. Christy betrays only a passing interest in becoming a yoga instructor. And then there is me, who a year ago came to Peru on a lark to take the “sacred spirit medicine”, ayahuasca, and get worked over by shamans. Little suspecting that I’d emerge from it feeling as if a waterlogged wool coat had been removed from my shoulders – literally feeling the burden of depression lifted – and thinking that there must be something to this crazy shamanism after all. And so I am back again. I’ve told no one this time – especially not my family. I grew up among fundamentalist atheists who taught me that we’re all alone in the universe, the fleeting dramas of our lives culminating in a final, ignoble end: death. Nothing beyond that. It was not a prescription for happiness, yet, for the first couple of decades of my life, I became prideful and arrogant about my atheism, believing that I was one of the rare few who had the courage to face life without the “crutches” of religion or, worse, such outrageous notions as shamanism. But for all of my overweening rationality, my world remained a dark, forbidding place beyond my control. And my mortality gaped at me mercilessly. Lisa shakes me from my reveries, asking why I’ve come back to take another tour with the shamans.

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*ayahuasca: a drug used for healing purposes

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4 2

The passage below describes the writer’s experience of the First World War (1914–1918). (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Continue the account (between 120–150 words), although you do not need to bring it to a conclusion. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

We had waited a long time for nine o’clock on that July night of 1917, and now that we were nearing the hour to be off we wanted sleep. Yet, through the nervous excitement which weeks of preparation had engendered we could doze but fitfully. On the rat-eaten boards of a dug-out on the canal bank we sprawled, pinned down by our battle clobber. A curtain hung at the door to keep out gas. It also kept out the twilight. “Can’t someone get a blasted light?” Private Smith suddenly exclaimed, and as an answer a match was struck, applied to a piece of four-by-two, which in turn was stuck in the middle of a tin of dubbin1. This acted as a candle, and threw a strange eerie light that turned the faces of the twenty of us who were huddled there a pale green, with dark shadows that made holes for eyes. Smith, who stared vacantly across to my side, broke the silence again. “God, this makes you think,” he said, in a voice which wasn’t quite like his own. “Put a sock in it, Smith,” was the solitary answer he received to his philosophy, and once more silence descended upon the dug-out, and shadows jumped over the domed roof as the green light bobbed up and down. I reflected idly on the happenings of the past month. Right back, where we could sleep in tolerably clean straw and pinch the eggs and cherries of an old French farmer, we had also crushed down his growing wheat and had cut trenches across his fields. We were told that these trenches followed the line of those we were to attack later, and, having cut them out, we rushed over them every day for a fortnight, always, at the end, capturing the little village of St. Julien. Only it was rather different there. You see we had a breathing space half-way across the fields, and from nowhere French girls came with baskets of oranges and chocolates for heroes – only the heroes had to pay through the nose for the dry or gritty delicacies. It was a great holiday, that – when we put one foot in paradise, experienced the unregretted loss of lousy shirts, stole eggs for breakfast, got fruit for tea and generally were fattened up. For what end? It was still dark, and my illuminated watch said 3.30. That meant half an hour more. Then we became very silent, and even the guns seemed to be still. It seemed like the calm that comes before the thunderstorm … An officer came round once more. “Five minutes more, boys,” he said; “get ready.” We fixed our bayonets2. We gripped each other’s hands. And waited. My heart seemed to thump violently against my ribs … Suddenly it came. I can still hear those three sharp staccato cannon shots which seemed to split the darkness, for there followed a tremendous roar and crash which sent the first light of dawn trembling along the distant horizon above the mist, suddenly to burst into miles of flames. And from No Man’s Land shot up a myriad of distress lights, trembling. And “express trains”3 roared overhead. It was a wonderful moment. Some magic force drew us up from our crouching positions, and in the blue mist which still clung to the hollows in the battlefield we looked like ghosts wreathed by smoke. Eighty thousand of us. © UCLES 2011

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5 Then we swept forward as if caught by the wind. The spreading light of dawn caught the glint of bayonets as they moved on and on … I met Ira by the side of a shell hole. He had pulled out his leg from the squelchy mud which had dragged him down to the knee. Months we had campaigned together. The happiness which we had managed to squeeze out of those dreary months we shared; the sorrows we shared; the parcels from home we shared. On those blessed days of rest we had flung bits of poetry to each other and had teased to say what we had quoted. We thought that after the War we would quit the monotonous life at home and would go adventuring. We had mapped out what we would do, where we would go – this country and that. They knew us as the twins. Before we went over we had been told to press on: if a man dropped down he must be left – others would follow to patch him up. “If you fall I shall stop,” said Ira to me a day before. “Hell to them all! I shall stop.” But we were separated before we began. He was attached to another platoon. I saw him as I went over. He was well. He laughed as he swore, “What a bloody mess!” We said good-bye – “God be with you.” I never saw him again.

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wax for waterproofing boots our bayonets: attached blades to our rifles 3“express trains”: artillery shells 2fixed

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The passage below comes from the novel McTeague, set in the early 20th century. In it, a rather lonely American dentist and his surroundings are introduced. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Feeling a need for romance, McTeague joins a dating agency where he is asked to provide information about himself and his circ*mstances. He wishes to give an account that will impress others. Write the opening of his account of himself (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Once in his office, or, as he called it on his signboard, “Dental Parlors,” he took off his coat and shoes, unbuttoned his vest, and, having crammed his little stove full of co*ke, lay back in his operating chair at the bay window, reading the paper, drinking his beer, and smoking his huge porcelain pipe while his food digested; crop-full1, stupid, and warm. By and by, gorged with steam beer, and overcome by the heat of the room, the cheap tobacco, and the effects of his heavy meal, he dropped off to sleep. Late in the afternoon his canary bird, in its gilt cage just over his head, began to sing. He woke slowly, finished the rest of his beer – very flat and stale by this time – and taking down his concertina from the bookcase, where in week days it kept the company of seven volumes of “Allen’s Practical Dentist,” played upon it some halfdozen very mournful airs.2 The six lugubrious airs that he knew, always carried him back to the time when he was a car-boy at the Big Dipper Mine in Placer County, ten years before. He remembered the years he had spent there trundling the heavy cars of ore in and out of the tunnel … Two or three years later a travelling dentist visited the mine and put up his tent near the bunk-house. He was more or less of a charlatan, but he fired Mrs. McTeague’s ambition, and young McTeague went away with him to learn his profession. He had learnt it after a fashion, mostly by watching the charlatan operate. He had read many of the necessary books, but he was too hopelessly stupid to get much benefit from them. Then one day at San Francisco had come the news of his mother’s death; she had left him some money – not much, but enough to set him up in business; so he had cut loose from the charlatan and had opened his “Dental Parlors” on Polk Street, an “accommodation street” of small shops in the residence quarter of the town. Here he had slowly collected a clientele of butcher boys, shop girls, drug clerks, and car conductors. He made but few acquaintances. Polk Street called him the “Doctor” and spoke of his enormous strength. For McTeague was a young giant, carrying his huge shock of blond hair six feet three inches from the ground; moving his immense limbs, heavy with ropes of muscle, slowly, ponderously. His hands were enormous, red, and covered with a fell of stiff yellow hair; they were hard as wooden mallets, strong as vices, the hands of the old-time car-boy. Often he dispensed with forceps and extracted a refractory tooth with his thumb and finger. His head was square-cut, angular; the jaw salient, like that of the carnivora3. McTeague’s mind was as his body, heavy, slow to act, sluggish. Yet there was nothing vicious about the man. Altogether he suggested the draught horse, immensely strong, stupid, docile, obedient. When he opened his “Dental Parlors”, he felt that his life was a success, that he could hope for nothing better. In spite of the name, there was but one room. It was a corner room on the second floor over the branch post-office, and faced the street. McTeague made it do for a bedroom as well, sleeping on the big bed-lounge against the wall opposite the window. There was a washstand behind the screen in the corner where he manufactured his moulds. In the round bay window were his operating chair, his dental engine, and the movable rack on which he laid out his instruments. Three chairs, a bargain at the second-hand store, ranged themselves © UCLES 2011

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7 against the wall with military precision underneath a steel engraving of the court of Lorenzo de’ Medici, which he had bought because there were a great many figures in it for the money. Over the bed-lounge hung a rifle manufacturer’s advertisem*nt calendar which he never used. The other ornaments were a small marble-topped centre table covered with back numbers of “The American System of Dentistry”, a 50 stone pug dog sitting before the little stove, and a thermometer. A stand of shelves occupied one corner, filled with the seven volumes of “Allen’s Practical Dentist.” On the top shelf McTeague kept his concertina and a bag of bird seed for the canary. The whole place exhaled a mingled odor of bedding, creosote, and ether. But for one thing, McTeague would have been perfectly contented. Just outside 55 his window was his signboard – a modest affair – that read: “Doctor McTeague. Dental Parlors. Gas Given”; but that was all. It was his ambition, his dream, to have projecting from that corner window a huge gilded tooth, a molar with enormous prongs, something gorgeous and attractive. 1crop-full:

full of food tunes 3carnivora: meat-eating animals 2airs:

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2 Answer two questions.

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The following magazine article describes the experiences of a special search led by Marcelo dos Santos in the Amazon forest. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later the writer publishes another article which describes another unusual meeting in another remote part of the world. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

The rumor was a wild one, and it seized Marcelo dos Santos with the power of a primary myth. There’s an Indian living in the woods around here, some local ranch hands were saying in 1996. He wears no clothes. Get near him, and he vanishes. He is utterly alone … The rumor’s trail led to a logging operation near a cattle ranch. Marcelo and Altair, careful to sneak past the boss, found the company cook. “Yeah, I’ve seen him,” the cook told them, “and I know where he lives. Do you want to see?” Before they followed the cook to the sharply drawn border between pasture and forest, they had their doubts about the story. Couldn’t the Indian have been a wandering member of the Akuntsu tribe, who also customarily wore no clothes? Wasn’t the idea of an essentially self-sufficient man living in unbroken communion with nature practically impossible now, more than five hundred years after conquistadors,* prospectors, slavers, missionaries, rubber tappers and scientists started penetrating the Amazon’s depths? But when they stepped into the forest with the cook, they walked straight into an epic quest that would obsess, delight and terrify them for more than a decade. It would send them dodging arrows and would incite pitched battles with landowners that would upend lives forever. They would become detectives, piecing together the clues of a murder case that would ultimately offer them a glimpse of fathomless solitude. On the constricting edge of one of the last truly wild places on Earth, one man’s unlikely existence would show them what true survival meant and would underscore the value of mystery in a world with little room left for the unknown. Altair, clutching his rifle with one hand, twisted through a tangle of ferns. It was the peak of the dry season in 1998. They called this a rain forest, but it hadn’t even sprinkled here in sixty days. Insects swirled within the streaming bars of light that penetrated the canopy of jatoba trees. A papery rustle accompanied each footstep as he hiked deeper into the forest. Purá stiffened and motioned to the others – he’d heard something behind him. “Quiet!” Marcelo whispered to the others. They stood still and listened. Amid the ever-present chorus of bird song, they heard a rustling. The Indian was near the trap that they’d just discovered. They walked toward him, but he disappeared – it was as if he’d found a crack in the deep green curtain of foliage behind him and quietly slipped offstage. They spread out at random angles, until Altair saw something about 200 yards off the trail: a small thatch hut, the same kind that they had found hastily abandoned elsewhere in the forest. This time, the Indian was inside. They approached very slowly. “Hi, my friend,” Altair said. There was no response, but, through a slight gap in the thatch, Altair could see the man’s eyes. “He’s there,” Altair said to the others, “standing inside the hut.” Vincent aimed his video camera as Altair inched closer. Something was © UCLES 2011

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3 protruding through the thatch wall, twisting in place. “Look,” Altair said. “An arrow inside.” It was a fluted bamboo arrow, sharpened to a deadly point. Purá nervously decided to speak up: “Mampi no,” he said in the Kanoe tongue. Don’t shoot. The man didn’t react and continued to twist the arrow. Altair again stepped slowly toward the hut, and he saw the Indian draw his bow. Altair slowly backed up, showing the man his palms, meaning no harm. The Indian lowered his bow. Altair, hands still up in the air, slowly took another step forward; the man drew his bow again. Altair got the message: the Indian was drawing an imaginary line in the dirt about ten feet around his hut, saying, Keep your distance. For nearly six hours, they maintained the standoff. They built a small fire, offered the Indian food and tools, gifts they thought might convince him that they were friendly. “Here, this axe is yours,” Altair said, tossing it toward the hut. “This water yam, too.” The Indian eventually took the food that Altair dangled in front of the hut’s opening on the end of a long stick. Then he tore it to shreds and tossed it back outside, uneaten. At one point, Vincent moved a little closer with his camera to get a clear view of the Indian’s face through an opening in the hut’s wall of leaves. The Indian was looking beyond Altair, directly eyeing the camera. “Watch out, Vincent!” An arrow whizzed past Altair toward Vincent, missing the cameraman’s chest by inches.

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*conquistadors: Spanish invaders

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4 2

The following passage was written by Queen Marie of Romania in 1923. In it she presents her thoughts and feelings about the First World War (1914–1918) in which Romania became involved. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later in her account, the Queen describes how peace was restored to her country. Write this section of her account (between 120–150 words), although you do not need to bring it to a conclusion. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

I look back and see visions of my country as for twenty-three years I have known it, peaceful, blooming, full of abundance, its vast plain an ocean of waving corn amongst which diligent peasants move to and fro gathering in the harvest, the land’s dearest pride. I see its humble villages hidden amongst fruit trees, I see the autumn splendour of its forests, I see the grand solitude of its mountain summits, I see its noble convents, corners of hidden beauty, treasures of ancient art, I hear the sound of the shepherd’s horn, the sweet complaint of his ditties.* I see long roads with clouds of dust rising from them, many carts in a file. I see gaily clad peasants flocking to market. I see naked plains and long stretches of sand by the sea. I also see our broad, proud river Danube rolling its many waters past quaint little villages and boroughs inhabited by motley crowds of different nationalities, past towns of which the rising industries are a promise of future wealth. I see our port of Constanza with its bustle, its noise and its hopes. Then on August 27, 1916, the call to arms – War! I see the ardent faces of my young soldiers going off gaily to battle – I see the trains leaving, the flowers that decorate the cannons, horses and men – I hear the tramping of passing regiments, shouts of enthusiasm, words of exultation. I see the first wounded in the hospitals of Bucharest, white beds, many faces all turned towards me, eager hands helping; I inspect everything, go everywhere. I have my own hospital in our palace, I too am full of hope. For a while, a very short while, the news received from our armies is good, awakes wild enthusiasm, awakes dreams of glory in many a breast. Then the first ill tidings, a shadow on the expectant faces – a shadow over the town in spite of the blue sky above! After that there are still days of hope and confidence, days when the first illusions seem to take form once more, but through it all I have the strange presentiment that my country will have to drink to the dregs the bitterest of cups. Airships and Zeppelins become a haunting dread by night and by day; our country being narrow, the ground is good for such cruel sport. Death is poured down from the skies into the streets, women and children are slaughtered without number, and as though in defiance of the laws of God, the days they choose for their deathraids are the days when heaven is bluest and the sun shines most brightly. Having been designed by the enemy as principal culprit, it is the house out of town where I live with my children that they single out for special punishment, and on a glorious autumn morning they throw seventy-two bombs upon the dwelling and garden where it is known that my little ones are usually to be found. But on that day God did not wish another crime to be added to their lists! Ever darker are the clouds gathering around our heads. With anxiety we look for the help that was promised us. Surely this proud little country must learn its lesson and be laid low in the dust. And as in the time of the great flood, our small, struggling country is threatened from all sides at once. Our frontiers are endless. Without reinforcements our own resources are too small, we begin to realize the inevitable results if help does not come soon enough. © UCLES 2011

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5 But my cup is not yet full – amidst all the turmoil and growing anxiety, my youngest child sickens and all our efforts cannot save his life. During three mortal weeks we struggle to keep him, but Death rules supreme over the world. It is not to be. On All Souls’ Day, my last born, my little Mircea, passes away – and the voice of the cannon sounds closer every day. 50 After that, for a while all becomes dark. I grope about as one who has lost her way. Only one thing remains to me, the intense desire to alleviate suffering around me, to go there where despair is greatest, to drown my own grief in the grief of others, to move in places where my own tears can be shed without shame. So I begin wandering about in all parts of the country that have remained to us. 55 On all sides I hear the dreaded voice of the cannon calling out its message of death and destruction. I penetrate as far as they will allow me to go, I hunt up those freshly brought in from battle; as in a ghastly dream, I move from bed to bed.

*ditties: songs

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6 3

The following passage describes the writer’s experience of going fishing for salmon with his father in Canada. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The local tourist board decides to publish a brochure to promote the area and the exciting opportunities it provides. Write the opening of the brochure (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

The river was what a river should be, wild and remote, cold and clear, forest and mountains rising from its banks. August but cool, the clouds shouldering in close, the Arctic not far away. Bears nearby, and moose, and wolf. Caribou and even wolverine and lynx. Creatures improbable, the salmon kin to them in size, monsters passing near us invisible for the light reflected on the surface. The feeling was of entering waters inhabited. We waded out carefully from the bank in our hip boots. The river not deep, which made the king salmon all the more improbable. My father lived only for these moments, for entering wilderness. This was mystery to him, the world come alive. We didn’t speak. It would have been sacrilege to speak. We moved carefully through the water, and he nodded when it was time for me to cast. Salmon roe cured and tied up in red netting, and a particular drift, a bouncing along the bottom. Cast high, let the bait bounce down along the deepest part of the river, hold it back, keep tension as it slipped below us, and on one of these casts into the void a tremendous pull on my line. I yanked back on the pole as I had been taught, set the hook, and then felt fear. The line sang out at an unbelievable pace, the rod bent over in a full bow, and I was being pulled away into the deeper water. I was unable to speak, unable to call out for help. But I felt my father’s hand then, on the back of my braces, claiming me, holding me back from the deeper current, and then I felt his other hand on the rod, helping to fight against the salmon. I heard his whoop that he let out only when the battle was on. It was the two of us now, against the fish. Our lives, for the most part, do not become animate. But this thin line can connect us to the unseen, to the natural world as a force directly to contend with. Water is what suggests. We come to water, congregate all along its banks, because water is imagination. Anything is possible in the depths, in what is concealed beneath the surface. What might exist in the world, but also who we are, our life in dreams, our subconscious, our dooms and fate, our possibility. When we hook a monstrous fish and feel its terrible weight on the other end of that line, we communicate with what is most hidden in ourselves. And we communicate, also, with death, because this battle is about no less than that, the fish’s death and a shadow of our own inevitable passing. What makes this real, what makes it more than metaphor or hyperbole, is the length and scale of the battle. My father and I fought this king salmon together for no less than 45 minutes. This is what I hope you’ll experience, far from crowds and boats and civilisation. That time is an immensity. There were many stages to the battle. Initial excitement and thrill and fear, then a deeper fear as the power of this fish became known, as I was pulled farther down the river. All the way around the far bend, and still the fish pulled hard enough that my feet were worthless. My heels would catch in rock and gravel underwater and then I was yanked forward again into water, weightless, helpless to stop, and I could feel my father digging in behind, but then he was pulled forward, also, both of us swimming, holding onto the pole, entering the one element. I really feared we might drown, and I also feared who this creature was, whether the line might suddenly slack and he might rush forward, invisible, and come to battle us directly. There was no separation. We were not in a boat or on the bank. I found myself whimpering, shaking, calling out for my father. The fight became grim. © UCLES 2011

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7 When we hit shallower water again and were able to get our legs under us and keep the rod high, we still were pulled downstream. Soaked and shivering but not from the icy water, not from cold. We still hadn’t seen him. We were so hyped up on adrenaline, we couldn’t feel pain in our arms, but I know I was no longer doing 50 much to hold the pole. My arms no more than stumps. Fatigue and thrill at the same time, and this went on for what felt like epochs. Splashing and stumbling over larger boulders and the fallen trunks of trees, other deadfall at the shore, my father worried about snags, about the fish getting the line wrapped around something. Don’t let him skunk us,* he told me. Keep the pressure on him. Keep the tip high. I was reeling in 55 line, not much, but occasionally, with my father’s help, gaining. Then the fish would run again, all the line gone. And then he leaped.

*skunk us: defeat us

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2 Answer two questions.

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The following article describes the writer’s visit to Fordlandia, in a remote part of Brazil. Fordlandia was a car production plant paid for by Henry Ford, at the time the owner of one of the largest car companies in the world. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Later the writer publishes another magazine article which describes another unusual experience in another remote part of the world. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

“So, where do you want to go?” the best guide in Santarem inquired with a yawn. Gil’s phone rang constantly. He arranged tour schedules on his coaster.* He wanted to refer me to colleagues, but they were busy. “You interested in cars?” His remark threw me. I said my cousin Paul built a Model T from an abandoned chassis in his backyard. But what had that to do with the jungle? “Great!” His eyes lit up as though hitting the jackpot. “Pack your stuff. You’re heading to Fordlandia.” So now I was going to a place deemed “a tropical ghost town”. When Seringue bought my ticket, a local asked why in the world I wanted to visit such a forlorn place as Fordlandia. “All they do is fish, drink and live on government handouts!” he snorted. I had no idea, but the irony appealed to me. You could only get to Fordlandia by boat. A three hundred kilometres journey southwest of Santarem would take approximately twelve hours. “Slightly longer,” Gil shouted portside, “if it sinks.” He drove away towards wealthy tourists disgorging from a cruise ship that had docked overnight. On the boat I met Bruno, a research student at an Amazonian Institute on his way to Itaituba to research the impact of mining. When I mentioned Fordlandia, Bruno didn’t find the notion of a car production plant in the middle of the jungle surreal. “Volkswagen and Xerox have done the same. They’ve bought huge tracts of land. I mean huge!” I quickly learnt that international investors were lured into the Amazon, aided by subsidised loans, tax credits and write-offs. The morning mist scattered to reveal Fordlandia as I disembarked onto a long wooden pier. A group of dark gauchos shaded by cowboy hats stood idly by and muttered among themselves. Tourism was up. My arrival had doubled the year’s intake. I took out my camera and began to focus. Most buildings had broken windows. No one bothered to smash those still intact; the dust that accrued over the years repelled even the hardest stones. Processing ramps criss-crossed at useless angles. I zoomed closer. Even snails had given up on them midway. Tufts of grass tumbled out of the hoods of skeletal Fords lying in fields whilst hydrants “Made in Michigan” poked their red heads above weeds starved of fire. I grabbed a coffee at the dockside canteen and was directed to the Ford production plant behind the schoolyard. At the end of a gravel driveway, a gate was © UCLES 2011

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3 tightly wound with heavy chains and clamped with an enormous lock. I managed to crawl beneath the honeycomb fencing and scramble over barbed wire that blocked the path to the main entrance. I felt as though I was trespassing. If this were a museum, I would have it all to myself. The doors were barred. I entered the main building through a broken window. The interior was vast and practically empty. From what I could tell from holes drilled in the floor, machines had been unbolted and sold as scrap iron. What remained were large green turbines next to electricity meters with dangling wires. I swiped a layer of dust off the metal casing and sneezed over the words “Wesson of Chicago”. Dials and switchboards with burnt fuses in squeaky boxes were the last vestiges of a lost world. A hoist in a corner was surely where the chassis were once welded. In another corner, bric-a-brac piled together: a wheelchair, a pram, a filing cabinet. The Ford factory was a resting home for aged metal. An iron plaque inscribed Fordlandia’s origins. It had been inaugurated in 1928 with equipment shipped from Detroit, where the Ford Motor Car Company created an alliance with Harvey Firestone. (Ford produced the carriage, Firestone the tyres.) Fordlandia was an ambitious plan to construct sawmills, a hospital, a radio station, employee housing and even an 18-hole golf course. A workforce of single men, mainly from Brazil’s north-east, was lured there with the prospect of gold. A car can be broken up into constituent parts: iron for the chassis, electricity for internal wiring, rubber for tyres, petrol and oil for energy, aluminium for wipers, chrome for fenders, glass for mirrors and windows. And so Ford bought up big in Brazil: ships, ports, railways, steel mills, hydro-electric plants, iron and coal mines, even the river for water supply and to discharge refuse. But with overheads like this, how was Henry Ford ever going to turn a profit? So where did it all go wrong? Fordlandia was an experiment that tried to modify human nature by replacing nature: workers were woken by bells and whistles instead of birdsong. They read clocks instead of the sun. The punched card at the entrance signalled the siesta they had lost.

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*coaster : boat

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The following passage describes the writer’s experience of the First World War (1914–1918). (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The writer is later wounded in battle and describes this later in his account. Write the opening section of the account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Turmoil and confusion are everywhere. Troops, baggage, and all the litter of war, lumbers up every available space. Officers are here, there, and everywhere. They sort us out, guide, and lead us to our trains. We file in. Where are we going? No one knows. Where’s the 8th? Where’s the 7th? Where’s the 6th? Where is any regiment? We move. It is night. We travel all night, and are joining or rejoining, new troops or casualties returning to our units. Sergeant S. is with me. He already has the D.C.M.1 This is his third lot. He does not relish it, none of us do. This will probably finish him; he realizes it. We all do. That is, the men. But what of the others? Boys, boys, boys – always boys. They have no right here. They are brave enough now, but, in a few hours, shells, gas, machine gun, and rifle will play hell with them. Daylight comes. Nesle slips by, and Ham, and right on to rail-head we go. There the track ends, and we detrain. Officers claim us, and the troops break up, going each to their corps reinforcements. Here we spend a day or two. There are parades, and instruction. We drill the boys; they hate it – so do we. Then they give me a map, point out my direction, put me in charge of a party, and off we go. Autreville is our headquarters, and I have to shepherd these lads safely to their destination, which, according to my map, is about seven miles away. The going is heavy. Loaded like pack-mules, some of the lads soon crack up, so I rest them a bit, and take the opportunity to make adjustments to the equipment of one or two, in order that a better fit will make it easier for them. We go on; aircraft, flying high, are being shelled; it gives the boys their first experience of shell-fire. They do not mind, it is so far away. A transport wagon overtakes us, it belongs to the 8th, our unit. I hail the driver. He says that we have three miles to go yet, and suggests relieving some of the boys of their equipment. I agree. I know that it is wrong to do so, but I chance it. You have to chance everything in this war; and if you get caught, well, it does not matter much. He loads the equipment into his wagon, and goes on. The lads keep their rifles, and the going is easier for some. We reach Autreville. Of course, we have our rations – at least, we did. A bag of tea, one of sugar, and milk in tins. No, they’re gone? Dumped somewhere, no one knows. I don’t mind very much. The quartermaster2 fumes and curses, but I know perfectly well that he will have to provide more. The boys, however, are appalled. They think that they will have to go short. We lounge here for a day, and then I take my party up the line. As I have only three miles to go this time, they give me a guide. He leads. I am instructed to take the rear, and keep an eye on stragglers. He sends me no word back. We pass a guard; we don’t salute, because I do not see them until we have © UCLES 2011

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5 almost passed them. Further on, we pass a general with his aide, both on foot. We do not salute; we take no notice. He looks surprised, but passes on without a word. 45 Wise old man! At last, we reach the battalion. We are divided up, and go to various companies. I go to “B” Company. The first man I meet is Alf K., V.C.3 “Oh!” he cries. “Here’s a bit of luck; we’ve got a sergeant.” That means that he, and his N.C.O.s,4 will be a little less overworked. My officer is away on leave; his place is taken by Lieutenant S., whom I do 50 not like, and consider a bit of a fool. I see him in the dark just removing a rifle from beside a sleeping boy. He is handing it back to his runner, and has not seen me as he is half-turned away. I decide to give him a fright; so as he turns again, he finds the point of my bayonet5 an inch from his throat. He hears my fierce whisper of “Who are you?” and 55 replies hurriedly, “Rum! ” the password for the night. I tell him that he is lucky, as I thought of thrusting first and enquiring afterwards. I tell him that I view the disarming of one of my sentries very seriously. For the sake of the boy, we patch it up, and say nothing about it. 1D.C.M:

Distinguished Conduct Medal an officer in charge of supplies 3V.C.: the Victoria Cross – the highest medal for bravery 4N.C.O.s: non-commissioned officers 5bayonet: blade on the front of a rifle 2quartermaster:

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In the passage below the writer describes her memories of her father. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) After leaving home, the writer discovers a diary her mother has kept. In it her mother records her thoughts and feelings about family life. Write a section from this diary (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Unlike many of my peers, I grew up watching one parent progressively succumb to the siren call of alcoholism and the secret weighed me down like a sandbag. My father died in 1990 at the age of 50. My memories of him are complex, multi-stranded, and perhaps unreliable with the passing of time. I see him at parties (lots of parties), smiling, roaring, kissing the cheeks of women, slapping the backs of men; I see him gently snoring on the vinyl sun lounger in our back garden, roasting to a deep chestnut brown, a single white crease running across his midriff like a scar. And then he’s there, shuffling and prematurely aged, a plastic bag of bottles clinking against his shabby legs. I stifle a small cry when he passes me on the street, his glassy eyes meeting mine without recognition. I scream raucously as he hugs the eight-year-old me, tickling my ribs until I can laugh no more; and I curse as he banishes me from his study so he can pour another furtive drink. I seethe when he tells me I’m beautiful; I rage when he says I’m possessed. I’m a smart cookie, I’m a disgrace. He loves me, he hates me. A few years later I proudly watch him deliver a lecture to a room full of students, but I almost die when my friend and I bump into him in the hallway at midnight, a coldsweat space in time when we are teenagers and he is undressed and unapologetic. Oh, how we laughed, our backs pressed against my closed bedroom door, the friend clutching her belly in spasms of hysteria. I joined in too, ha-ha-ha, tears of mirth spilling down my face. But inside, I wanted to end it all there and then. Oh. My. God. I remember a lot of laughter when I was growing up. As a family we loved the absurd. My father took as much pleasure in watching comedy shows as he did in reading serious books. His sharp wit was infectious and at his best he was irreverent and playful. But his temper could be brutal, unexpected and crushing. It was a world of not knowing what would come next, not knowing what is normal and what is not. For our family, an alcohol-fuelled weekend might conclude with Dad taking himself off for a few hours, plunging the household into uncommunicative inertia. We would all disappear to our own corners of the house, avoiding eye contact with one another, petulant. But for each of us the same questions spiralled around. Where’s Dad? Out. Where’s out? Don’t know. Who’s he with? Was that his key in the front door? How will he be? Remorseful and affectionate? Brittle and antagonistic? Was that his key in the front door? His accelerated journey towards the precipice was preceded by these everincreasing absences. I came to anticipate these episodes, but never grew used to them. Did it damage me? I like to think not. Did it shape me? Immeasurably. I’m sure my lack of spontaneity, my aversion to noise and my impatience all stem from those formative years, when the unexpected was the norm, when the noise levels in our home rose from silence to fever pitch in seconds and the wait for something to happen was painful. The quiet tension of a Sunday afternoon was vast, and the ghost of it troubles me even today. When my father died, twenty years ago, I was nineteen. The family, as we © UCLES 2011

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7 knew it, had disintegrated two years earlier, not long after his early retirement from teaching. His drinking bouts were no longer punctuated by periods of moderation, but had joined together into one unbearable binge of round-the-clock consumption. 45 His body stopped recognising when it was day and night, and he would roam from room to room at all hours, looking for the answers. If you happened to be in that room, he would wake you to discuss whatever was on his mind. My brother had already left home. Having survived for several months on tiny sleep rations, my mother, sister and I eventually, abruptly left. It was a Sunday. Just after dessert was 50 served. Mum put down her rubber gloves, looked at me and asked me to step into the garden. “We’re leaving,” she said, calmly. And we went. For the next two years, Sundays were fractured by a new disquiet: the anticipation of Dad’s phone calls. His heartbroken fury was something that none of us could cope with and for six months or so I tried to sever all contact. Then, 55 suddenly, my role changed. His erratic behaviour had alienated all family and friends and his sudden isolation presented new concerns. From being his fiercest sparring partner, I became his reluctant 18-year-old care visitor.

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2 Answer two questions.

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The following passage describes the writer’s departure from Zimbabwe to live a new life in New Zealand. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later in her life, the writer moves away from another country she has lived in. She writes about this experience in another article. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

Of course there were other, lesser, teenage preoccupations: leaving my best friend and my first boyfriend; missing out on the end-of-school dance. Even my 16-year-old self knew that these things were petty and selfish, but that did not stop the angry exclamation points in my diary (SO UNFAIR!!!). It was easier to concentrate on these safer, more familiar problems (problems shared by the people I saw on television and in the magazines) than on the larger concerns that I did not want to write about. Mum took me shopping for warm clothes. New Zealand is cold, she told me, and we would need woolly hats and cardigans. Perhaps even a winter coat. I could not imagine a winter where you might need a coat, living where the heat melted the roads and silenced the morning birds. In preparation for exile, I tried to write descriptions of everything I saw in those last few weeks in Zimbabwe, determined to remember it all when I was living in that distant, wintery land. There was too much to write down, though, and so the diary became a list of disconnected objects, the packing list of a mad person, as if I were planning to build an ark and take all these things with me: chameleons, go-away birds, Castle lager, rock rabbits, Mazowe orange juice, msasa trees and barbecues on the verandah. The week before we left, Mum and I both fell ill. We vomited every few minutes with depressing regularity and the house filled with a swampy miasma. I wondered, objectively, if I might be dying. Perhaps I was incapable of surviving anywhere but Zimbabwe, and these were the first withdrawal pains; worse would follow. When we got better, the world felt transparent and insubstantial. We picked avocados from our tree to take with us on the journey, forgetting that airport security would confiscate them. They smelled of sunshine and had green, toad-like skins, but as they sat in our suitcases and waited for our departure they turned dim and purple as bruises. We packed as much as we could into our luggage and sewed illegal foreign currency into our clothes. I do not remember who drove us to the airport; I do not remember the drive at all. I do remember that it seemed too easy to be real. Could it really be as simple as walking through a gate, past these yawning security officers with their AK47s? I waited for shouting, footsteps, gunshots. Impostors! Deserters! I clutched my carry-on bag (“Hold it as if it isn’t heavy, or they’ll charge us extra”), trying to swing it casually. My shoulder creaked in its socket. One of the officers spoke to me, and I struggled to hear him through the buzz of fear in my ears. I shook my head to clear it, and he repeated himself. “Fambai zvakanaka,” he said, and smiled. Travel well. The scent of the avocados drifted to me, warm and sickly. Mum poured me a polystyrene cup of water. There was a smear of pinkish lipstick on the rim that made my stomach heave. “These are no good any more,” said Mum, and abandoned the avocados in the airport bin. They released the last of their scent before disappearing. We climbed onto the plane, and still no one stopped us. I waited for the announcement (“We are unable to take off because we have stowaways on board”), © UCLES 2012

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3 but it did not come. Surely Zimbabwe would not let us go without a fight ? My stomach burbled embarrassingly loudly. “Mum. Mum! I need the lavatory.” “Not again.’’ She sighed, stood up, let me walk down the carpeted aisle and sit on the aeroplane toilet. Perhaps this was how Zimbabwe would claim me back. I flushed and waited to be sucked out through the belly of the plane, but nothing happened. I started to be afraid. Perhaps nothing would keep us here. Perhaps the country did not care that we were going; perhaps it wanted us to go. Perhaps this time we really were leaving after all. From the air, the lights of Harare1 were twinkling and festive. “Tomorrow morning we’ll be in London,” said Mum. She had taken off her glasses and her eyes were raw. I pressed my hand to the window and felt it cold under my palm. There is a Shona proverb: “The strength of a fish is in the water.” I did not know much about fish, Iiving as I did far from any coast, and my experience was limited to bitter Kariba Dam bream2 or the battered overgrown fish fingers that we ate with chips, but I could imagine myself flopping and gasping on foreign ground, breathing impossible air, as stranded and desperate as if I had been transported to the moon. I kept my diaries full of memories and my rambling lists of all the things I planned to remember. I knew I’d write about Zimbabwe one day. I did not realise, though, that the writing would be a search for that part of myself I had left behind – and that I would never quite find it again. 1 2

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Harare: capital of Zimbabwe bream: freshwater fish

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4 2

The following passage describes the singer and film actor Frank Sinatra in 1965, at the height of his fame. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later that evening Sinatra writes his thoughts and feelings in his personal journal. Write the opening of the diary entry (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original passage. [10]

Frank Sinatra, holding a glass of whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other, stood in a dark corner of the bar between two attractive but fading blonde women who sat waiting for him to say something. But he said nothing; he had been silent during much of the evening, except now in this private club in Beverly Hills he seemed even more distant, staring out through the smoke and semi-darkness into a large room beyond the bar where dozens of young couples sat huddled around small tables or twisted in the center of the floor to the clamorous clang of folk-rock music blaring from the stereo. The two blondes knew, as did Sinatra’s four male friends who stood nearby, that it was a bad idea to force conversation upon him when he was in this mood of sullen silence, a mood that had hardly been uncommon during this first week of November, a month before his fiftieth birthday. Sinatra had been working in a film that he now disliked, could not wait to finish; he was tired of all the publicity attached to his dating the twenty-year-old actress, who was not in sight tonight; he was angry that a CBS television documentary of his life, to be shown in two weeks, was reportedly prying into his privacy, even speculating on his possible friendship with Mafia leaders; he was worried about his starring role in an hour-long NBC show entitled Sinatra – A Man and His Music, which would require that he sing eighteen songs with a voice that at this particular moment, just a few nights before the taping was to begin, was weak and sore and uncertain. Sinatra was ill. He was the victim of an ailment so common that most people would consider it trivial. But when it gets to Sinatra it can plunge him into a state of anguish, deep depression, panic, even rage. Frank Sinatra had a cold. Sinatra with a cold is Picasso without paint, Ferrari without fuel – only worse. For the common cold robs Sinatra of that uninsurable jewel, his voice, cutting into the core of his confidence, and it affects not only his own psyche but also seems to cause a kind of psychosomatic nasal drip within dozens of people who work for him, drink with him, love him, depend on him for their own welfare and stability. For Frank Sinatra was now involved with many things involving many people – his own film company, his record company, his private airline, his missile-parts firm, his real-estate holdings across the nation, his personal staff of seventy-five – which are only a portion of the power he is and has come to represent. He seemed now to be also the embodiment of the fully liberated male, perhaps the only one in America, the man who can do anything he wants, anything, can do it because he has money, the energy, and no apparent guilt. In an age when the very young seem to be taking over, protesting and picketing and demanding change, Frank Sinatra survives as a national phenomenon, one of the few products to withstand the test of time. He is the champ who made the big comeback, the man who had everything, lost it, then got it back, letting nothing stand in his way, doing what few men can do: he uprooted his life, left his family, broke with everything that was familiar, learning in the process that one way to hold a woman is not to hold her. Now he has the affection of Nancy and Ava and Mia1, the fine female produce of three generations, and still has the adoration of his children, the freedom of a bachelor, he does not feel old, he makes old men feel young, makes them think that if Frank Sinatra can do it, it can be done; not that they could do it, but it is still nice for other men to know, at fifty, that it can be done. © UCLES 2012

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5 But now, standing at this bar in Beverly Hills, Sinatra had a cold, and he continued to drink quietly and he seemed miles away in his private world, not even reacting when suddenly the stereo in the other room switched to a Sinatra song, “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning . . .” The two blondes, who seemed to be in their middle thirties, were preened and polished, their matured bodies softly molded within tight dark suits. They sat, legs crossed, perched on the high bar stools. They listened to the music. Then one of them pulled out a cigarette and Sinatra quickly placed his gold lighter under it and she held his hand, looked at his fingers: they were stubby and raw, and the little fingers protruded, being so stiff from arthritis that he could barely bend them. 1

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Nancy and Ava and Mia: Sinatra’s daughter, his ex-wife and his partner at the time

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6 3

The following passage from a story describes a world in which a young girl relies on a robot for companionship. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) Continue the passage (between 120–150 words), although you do not have to bring the story to a close. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

“Ninety-eight – ninety-nine – one hundred.” Gloria withdrew her chubby little forearm from before her eyes and stood for a moment, wrinkling her nose and blinking in the sunlight. Then, trying to watch in all directions at once, she withdrew a few cautious steps from the tree against which she had been leaning. She craned her neck to investigate the possibilities of a clump of bushes to the right and then withdrew farther to obtain a better angle for viewing its dark recesses. The quiet was profound except for the incessant buzzing of insects and the occasional chirrup of some hardy bird, braving the midday sun. Gloria pouted, “I bet he went inside the house, and I’ve told him a million times that that’s not fair.” With tiny lips pressed together tightly and a severe frown crinkling her forehead, she moved determinedly toward the two-storey building up past the driveway. Too late she heard the rustling sound behind her, followed by the distinctive and rhythmic clump-clump of Robbie’s metal feet. She whirled about to see her triumphing companion emerge from hiding and make for the home-tree at full speed. Gloria shrieked in dismay. “Wait, Robbie! That wasn’t fair, Robbie! You promised you wouldn’t run until I found you.” Her little feet could make no headway at all against Robbie’s giant strides. Then, within ten feet of the goal, Robbie’s pace slowed suddenly to the merest of crawls, and Gloria, with one final burst of wild speed, dashed pantingly past him to touch the welcome bark of home-tree first. Gleefully, she turned on the faithful Robbie, and with the basest of ingratitude, rewarded him for his sacrifice by taunting him cruelly for a lack of running ability. “Robbie can’t run,” she shouted at the top of her eight-year-old voice. “I can beat him any day. I can beat him any day.” She chanted the words in a shrill rhythm. Robbie didn’t answer, of course not in words. He pantomimed running instead, inching away until Gloria found herself running after him as he dodged her narrowly, forcing her to veer in helpless circles, little arms outstretched and fanning at the air. “Robbie,” she squealed, “stand still!” – And the laughter was forced out of her in breathless jerks. Until he turned suddenly and caught her up, whirling her round, so that for her the world fell away for a moment with a blue emptiness beneath, and green trees stretching hungrily downward toward the void. Then she was down in the grass again, leaning against Robbie’s leg and still holding a hard, metal finger. After a while, her breath returned. She pushed uselessly at her disheveled hair in vague imitation of one of her mother’s gestures and twisted to see if her dress were torn. She slapped her hand against Robbie’s torso, “Bad boy! I’ll spank you!” And Robbie cowered, holding his hands over his face so that she had to add, “No, I won’t, Robbie. I won’t spank you. But anyway, it’s my turn to hide now because you’ve got longer legs and you promised not to run till I found you.” Robbie nodded his head – a small parallelopiped1 with rounded edges and corners attached to a similar but much larger parallelopiped that served as torso by means of a short, flexible stalk – and obediently faced the tree. A thin, metal film descended over his glowing eyes and from within his body came a steady, resonant ticking. “Don’t peek now – and don’t skip any numbers,” warned Gloria, and scurried for cover. © UCLES 2012

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7 With unvarying regularity, seconds were ticked off, and at the hundredth, up went the eyelids, and the glowing red of Robbie’s eyes swept the prospect. They rested for a moment on a bit of colorful gingham cloth that protruded from behind a boulder. He advanced a few steps and convinced himself that it was Gloria who squatted behind it. Slowly, remaining always between Gloria and home-tree, he advanced on the hiding place, and when Gloria was plainly in sight and could no longer even theorize to herself that she was not seen, he extended one arm toward her, slapping the other against his leg so that it rang again. Gloria emerged sulkily. “You peeked!” she exclaimed, with gross unfairness. “Besides I’m tired of playing hide-and-seek. I want a ride.” But Robbie was hurt at the unjust accusation, so he seated himself carefully and shook his head ponderously from side to side. Gloria changed her tone to one of gentle coaxing immediately, “Come on, Robbie. I didn’t mean it about the peeking. Give me a ride.” Robbie was not to be won over so easily, though. He gazed stubbornly at the sky, and shook his head even more emphatically. 1 parallelopiped:

© UCLES 2012

a 3D geometrical shape (formed of parallelograms)

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2 Answer two questions.

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In the following passage the writer, while visiting China, considers his role as a tourist. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same writer produces another article about a visit to another location or country. In it he considers his thoughts and feelings about the place. Write a section of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

I mean, who’d actually set out to be a tourist? Oh yes, that’s right, me. In Beijing, where being a tourist takes cluelessness to a whole new level. It’s like having the tiniest taste of what life might be like being deaf and dumb – you can’t talk to anyone, you can’t understand anything. And you can’t leave your hotel without checking three times that you have the address card with you, written in Chinese characters, since without it the chances of ever seeing your baggage again are, at best, remote. After I hand it, wordlessly, to my third taxi driver of the day, I remind myself getting home at the end of an evening is a matter of hope over probability. And so it is that after I make the pilgrimage to Tiananmen Square and marvel at its empty vastness, the colossal painting of Chairman Mao, and the enormous crowds of people queuing up to go into the Forbidden City, and contemplate the queues and the bare statistics in my guidebook (it has 9,999.5 rooms covering an area of 730,000 square metres), I give up. I feel faint at the hugeness of it, of the sheer scale of Beijing, with its seven – seven! – ring roads. And feel an instant sense of relief. Because not-sightseeing is so much more enjoyable than sightseeing, in that it’s more like life. As opposed to the strange non-life that being a tourist entails where you’re expected to do strange, unnatural things you would never contemplate back home, where I rarely leap out of bed on a Saturday morning and think I must see the crown jewels and then the changing of the guard.1 In Nan Lu Guo Xiang, one of the few hutongs, or alleyways, that managed to escape Beijing’s crazed demolition gangs, there are boho2 cafés and funky jewellery shops and young Beijingers and expats3 whiling away their afternoons, and I do what they do – I hang out. I drink coffee and study a tourist guide in English, and it’s here that I realise that the trick with any city is to pretend that you live in it. I’m a rubbish tourist, but I’ve loved my stints of living abroad, where you see the city out of the corner of your eye, rather than attempt to bag it in a weekend. And what people who live in Beijing do is get out of it. As soon as they can. In a good way, because although it’s exciting and dynamic and throbs with life and traffic and skyscrapers, I breathe a sigh of Beijinger relief on the bus ride out of town, as we finally leave the sprawling suburbs and low-hung sky to emerge in blinding sunshine in the kind of mountains a child would draw: range after range of pointy peaks topped with snow. There are a million different tourist trips to “The Wall”, but they all go to Badaling (with its Starbucks), or to remoter Simatai, which is not so remote as to not have a chairlift. But as a pseudo-local, I join not a tourist tour but a hiking group, Beijing Hikers, and we head to Yanqing District, where there is an empty, broken-down stretch, truly in the middle of nowhere – a six-hour walk starting near the village of Chang Yu Cheng, up one of the pointy mountains to an ancient watchtower, 1,550m above sea level. When we finally get there, the view is astonishing – mile after mile of wall, zig-zagging crazily across the landscape, disappearing into the horizon beyond. What’s even better is the company. Huijie, who is Beijing born and bred, runs © UCLES 2012

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3 Beijing Hikers with her husband, Hayden, and it attracts a mix of native Beijingers, adopted Beijingers and the odd blow-in like me. There’s Mei, who was from Beijing originally before living for 30 years in Australia and who has returned – reluctantly – because her husband is doing business; and Zach, who’s one of the hundreds of young Chinese Americans who’ve come back to see the country their parents fought so hard to leave. The group is a sort of halfway house, Western enough to appreciate the joys of slogging your guts out up a steep hill, but Chinese enough to have an insight into the local culture. But then, that’s the other great thing about not-sightseeing, not-schlepping4 dutifully around the sights, and not-taking a whole load of photos of buildings you’ll never look at again: if you do things you tend to like doing anyway, you tend to meet people who like doing the things that you like doing, too – in my case walking up hills and hanging out in bookshops.

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crown jewels… the changing of the guard: tourist attractions in London boho: a shortened form of bohemian, unconventional way of life 3 expats: a shortened form of expatriates, people who live in a different country from where they were born 4 schlepping: moving slowly 2

© UCLES 2012

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4 2

In the following passage a Russian man called Vitali Vitaliev describes his experience of learning to drive. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Kevin, the driving instructor, writes his thoughts and feelings about Vitaliev’s driving in his diary. Write the opening of the diary entry (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original passage. [10]

While living in Australia, I used to hate fire hydrants. Melbourne, the city where I was based, appeared to have been invaded by them. Wherever you went, rows of the things stood nonchalantly at the kerb, dragging people and cars towards them. Their short vertical form was almost pagoda-like, but I didn’t feel like praying at those small roadside temples that gave the impression that Melbourne was possessed by pyrophobia1 and inhabited exclusively by pyromaniacs2. I started suffering from that peculiar disease – firehydrantphobia – after my first-ever driving lesson. At the tender age of 37, I finally decided to learn to drive a car. I even successfully passed my traffic rules test, only slightly embarrassed to be doing this in the company of giggling teenagers. I couldn’t wait to be able to sit behind the wheel of my brand-new Mazda 121. Never before had I felt so passionate about an inanimate piece of technology. My Mazda though was very much alive: gleaming, young, beautiful and, yes, feminine. I was sure she winked at me coquettishly with her left blinker when I first approached her from the front. Her insides smelled of leather and perfume, and the exterior was bright yellow – the safest colour, I was told. Her engine worked with short flirtatious purrs, which were driving me mad with desire to drive her. The sad reality of my learner status was that I had to share my mechanical sweetheart with someone else, and I dropped myself into the driver’s seat next to Kevin, my driving instructor. ‘I never knew driving was so easy! The most difficult thing so far has been adjusting the mirrors.’ And see: I am moving – faster and faster – my steady hands resting possessively on the wheel. Looking triumphantly around, I am driving, driving my beloved Mazda crazy with driving her. I am making a left-hand turn . . . Crunch. I don’t know, I must have pressed the accelerator instead of the brake. My little Mazda leapt up in the air and landed beyond the kerb. Kevin had no time to react. We were both alive, it seemed – but where is this angry hissing coming from? Kevin, my Mazda and I were lying on our side, and as I looked over my shoulder I saw a thick fountain of pressurised water beating from underneath the wreck. My voluminous research had educated me that a car engine needed water for cooling – but so much? It occurred to me suddenly that the hissing might be some precursor to the car exploding, at which point I promptly fell out of my seat through the open car door and into the mud-filled ditch beneath. Clambering to my feet I could see that the 20m-high fountain of water that beat from the flattened fire hydrant was generously watering the nearby palm tree – not to mention the unsuspecting rare pedestrians on the opposite side of the road. Two playful rainbows were already dancing above the newly created sea of Melbourne mud under the stream. From the corner of my eye, I spotted another palm tree – hairy, thick and solid – just 20cm from where the car stopped. Only at that point did I realise how close I came to meeting my maker. © UCLES 2012

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5 It all fell into a dreamlike sequence of events: the torrents of water flooding the street, the arrival of the water utilities people; the tow-truck lifting my poor Mazda and carrying her away. I could hardly believe that I was the source of all that fuss. After all, I was just trying to turn the corner, the first corner in my car-driving life. The injured fire hydrant was lying on the ground – a desecrated headstone on the grave of my illusions that driving was easy. It had probably saved my life by slowing down my Mazda’s dash towards the palm tree. An admirably courageous Kevin made sure we returned to the same corner in the same repaired Mazda several weeks later. I negotiated it again – this time without incident or accident. I was now educated and fit to transport the great and the good from A to B – right? 1 2

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pyrophobia: fear of fire pyromaniacs: people who deliberately start fires

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6 3

The following passage from a story describes a time when only a few tribes of ‘man-apes’ exist. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Continue the passage (between 120–150 words), although you do not have to bring the story to a close. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

Late that night, Moon-Watcher suddenly awoke. Tired out by the day’s exertions and disasters, he had been sleeping more soundly than usual, yet he was instantly alert at the first faint scrabbling down in the valley. He sat up in the foetid1 darkness of the cave, straining his senses out into the night, and fear crept slowly into his soul. Never in his life – already twice as long as most members of his species could expect – had he heard a sound like this. The great cats approached in silence, and the only thing that betrayed them was a rare slide of earth, or the occasional cracking of a twig. Yet this was a continuous crunching noise, that grew steadily louder. It seemed that some enormous beast was moving through the night, making no attempt at concealment, and ignoring all obstacles. Once Moon-Watcher heard the unmistakable sound of a bush, being uprooted; the elephants and dinotheria2 did this often enough, but otherwise they moved as silently as the cats. And then there came a sound which Moon-Watcher could not possibly have identified, for it had never been heard before in the history of the world. It was the clank of metal upon stone. Moon-Watcher came face to face with the New Rock when he led the tribe down to the river in the first light of morning. He had almost forgotten the terrors of the night, because nothing had happened after that initial noise, so he did not even associate this strange thing with danger or with fear. There was, after all, nothing in the least alarming about it. It was a rectangular slab, three times his height but narrow enough to span with his arms, and it was made of some completely transparent material; indeed, it was not easy to see except when the rising sun glinted on its edges. As Moon-Watcher had never encountered ice, or even crystal-clear water, there were no natural objects to which he could compare this apparition. It was certainly rather attractive, and though he was wisely cautious of most new things, he did not hesitate for long before sidling up to it. As nothing happened, he put out his hand, and felt a cold, hard surface. After several minutes of intense thought, he arrived at a brilliant explanation. It was a rock, of course, and it must have grown during the night. There were many plants that did this – white, pulpy things shaped like pebbles, that seemed to shoot up during the hours of darkness. It was true that they were small and round, whereas this was large and sharp-edged; but greater and later philosophers than MoonWatcher would be prepared to overlook equally striking exceptions to their theories. This really superb piece of abstract thinking led Moon-Watcher, after only three or four minutes, to a deduction which he immediately put to the test. The white round pebble-plants were very tasty (though there were a few that produced violent illness); perhaps this tall one . . .? A few licks and attempted nibbles quickly disillusioned him. There was no nourishment here; so like a sensible man-ape, he continued on his way to the river and forgot all about the crystalline slab, during the daily routine of shrieking at the Others. The foraging today was very bad, and the tribe had to travel several miles from the caves to find any food at all. During the merciless heat of noon one of the frailer females collapsed, far from any possible shelter. Her companions gathered round her, twittering and meeping sympathetically, but there was nothing that anyone could do. If they had been less exhausted they might have carried her with them, but there was no surplus energy for such acts of kindness. She had to be left behind, to © UCLES 2012

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7 recover or not with her own resources. They passed the spot on the homeward trek that evening; there was not a bone to be seen. In the last light of day, looking round anxiously for early hunters, they drank hastily at the stream and started the climb up to their caves. They were still a hundred yards from the New Rock when the sound began. It was barely audible, yet it stopped them dead, so that they stood paralysed on the trail with their jaws hanging slackly. A simple, maddeningly repetitious vibration, it pulsed out from the crystal; and hypnotised all who came within its spell. For the first time – and the last, for three million years – the sound of drumming was heard in Africa. The throbbing grew louder, more insistent. Presently the man-apes began to move forward, like sleepwalkers, toward the source of that compulsive sound. 1 2

foetid: stinking dinotheria: prehistoric relatives of modern-day elephants

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2 Answer two questions.

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The following passage describes the writer’s journey as he starts a new job. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same writer produces another article about his travels to another city to take another job. Write a section of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

Idealisation doesn’t come close. I have made of Sydney, to which I sailed in 1965, a paradise beyond the powers of fancy. Were I an actor in need of tears I would have only to think of what Sydney Harbour looked like when I first saw it, or how I felt when I left it three years later – not just the place but those I’d grown to love there – for the tears to pour from my eyes like waterfalls. I was young, I was newly married, my Cambridge degree was still warm in my pocket – a roll of parchment guaranteeing me, I thought, a sort of free ambassadorial passage to any campus of my choosing, and I had chosen Sydney – the world was all before me. Nothing had been good until then: I had hated university, I had been lonely, I craved respect though I had done nothing to deserve any, I had no idea what I was for. But now there could be no doubt: I was on a fourfold mission – to put the past behind me, to enter manhood, to cheer up, to teach English literature . . . oh, and to overcome seasickness. So that’s a fivefold mission. I failed the last. Some would say I failed the lot. But about seasickness, at least, there can be no argument. We were at sea about a month, and it was a whole year before the ground stayed still beneath my feet. Flotillas of small boats came out to meet us, each stocked to the point of capsizing with touristical junk, of which the most vivid to me still, perhaps because we bought a pair, were carved wooden elephant bookends. In minutes the merchants would ensnare the ship in a tangle of rigging which enabled them to send us up our merchandise, and us to send them down our money. If any more picturesque method of bartering and buying has ever been devised I had not encountered it. Though I had travelled a bit, I had never seen anything like this – a towering vessel roped from funnel to anchor, as though about to be boarded by pirates, so that items of silk, brass, batik and beads, could be hauled up while baskets of paper money and coins were hauled down, all to the accompaniment of a wild cacophony of negotiation and derision. I felt like Marco Polo, surveying the wonders of the world. When we went ashore it was the same. I was spat at in Port Said – don’t ask me why. (By which I mean don’t ask me or I’ll tell you.) We bought Bob Dylan records for a quarter of their price in Aden, faring better than those who bought boxed shirts only to discover, when they got them back on board, that they had no sleeves or backs. And in Colombo, where I bought my wife a ring from a gold dealer in an upstairs room in a backstreet I wouldn’t dare to venture into today, we were chased by a snake charmer who believed we owed him more than we’d paid him for taking his photograph. But for the lurching sea, everything we saw was lit by the light of a marvellous adventure . . . well, but for the lurching sea and the Australian stowaway. We’d have helped her more had she not snored when we gave her our cabin floor to sleep on. We entered Sydney Harbour late on a broiling February afternoon. The sky was a phosphorescent blue, the air was balmy; in the distance I could make out the arch of the bridge, as full of promise as a rainbow. Bigger and more curious seagulls than I had ever seen in England hovered over us. “Waltzing Matilda”1 played on the loudspeaker system. I could barely breathe for the kitschy splendour of it all. My wife kissed me. Our new life had begun. © UCLES 2012

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3 More fun for me, as it was to turn out, than for her. Everything happened at once. We were met off the boat by the professor who’d hired me. We were to stay with him that night. But before sleep, dinner. The gallon flagons of wine that were passed around the table I will never forget. It’s my suspicion that wine coming in flagons made one drink more; when you have only red or white to choose from, you concentrate more on quantity than variety. I was drunk quickly anyway, and stayed a man who got drunk quickly for the rest of my sojourn in Australia – a Pom2 who couldn’t hold his liquor. I offer that as partial excuse for my behaviour. 1 2

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“Waltzing Matilda”: unofficial Australian national anthem Pom: Australian slang for an English person

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4 2

The following passage describes the life of a family at sea. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The writer’s father records his thoughts and feelings about the sea in a section of his autobiography. Write the opening of the section (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

When we were out at sea on Bungo Rye, we kids always wanted to jump into the crystal Pacific when it was calm. Dad would haul out the sea anchor: the big round canvas tarpaulin connected by a ring of ropes like a parachute connected to the boat. Its drag would stop the boat from moving forward. He lowered it into the water, then the steel ladder that hung just above the water’s surface, dipping into it at intervals as the boat gently rocked with the movements of our bodies. We yelled and leapt into the flat water, its coolness surrounding our unwashed skin and hair that had gone all greasy in the salt air. But down on the water’s surface, the sides of the bowl rose up completely over our heads, making us feel even more insignificant than usual. Looking into the ocean underneath was even worse. Lines of white sunlight streaked down into the invisible space for miles. It felt exactly like we were up on top of a tall building, ready to plummet to the depths without any support, like in a falling nightmare. We could literally see down forever, and this water was as deep as it comes. We could have all been swallowed up, pulled down to the unknown bottom, boat and all, and nothing would have made any difference. No coast guard would know nor any news organization find a trace. We would become another vague sea myth, another voyage gone into the one-way oblivion. Dad would stand up on deck as we swam, looking for sharks. He’d have a huge black automatic rifle co*cked in his arm. It was kept under the couch downstairs, next to the oversized military fatigues he told us we all needed to put on in case we were approached by an unseemly ship, and the crew needed to look like it was made up of men, not mere children. My father would stand there on deck shirtless, as he usually was, the salt and pepper pattern on his head sneaking its way onto his burly chest. His eyes would scan the horizon like a macho robot, searching for figures coming at him in the water. He was prepared, practically hoping for the worst. The first time he did this on our inaugural voyage, I heard Dad’s arm co*ck the rifle as we stood behind him, dripping with pure saltwater from the sea. “Stand back, you kids. I’m gonna do a practice round.” I saw him cradle the gun like John Wayne1, the hero of so many of his favorite movies. His eyes were fixed squarely on that ominously raised horizon. The rifle went off with a huge crack, and it sounded like an ear-splitting echo ensued, although I couldn’t see how in the immense vastness around us. My stepsister Rikki and I were closest to him, and we both jerked back and Rikki gave a yelp when the bullet case flung back at me, hitting me on my bare chest. A bright red mark formed. Dad turned around with a smile plastered on his face. I looked at him carefully. “Oh, I got hit by a bullet case,” he mocked. “Does it hurt?” I pretended to be indifferent. He laughed and turned back around, triggering another round into the far away ocean. This time I made sure to stand back. Ever since my dad had grown up hanging around the docks and old ships of Mystic, Connecticut, looking up to the sailors around him rather than his own absent, alcoholic father, he had known that was his calling: the endless, unquestioning sea. Shortly after my mother perished in a flash flood in California, my dad sold his insurance business, commissioned a sailboat to be built in Taiwan, and we all then flew to Hong Kong and set sail. But who takes off on to a million miles of water, without first contemplating their own death in vivid Technicolor? I guess my father had to find his own soul © UCLES 2012

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5 floating out there somewhere. Between two crests of transparent breaking waves, he would catch the glimpse that is his own life, in its entirety from start to finish. He would then see it for what it was, clearly and evenly and without judgment. Then it would submerge itself again, blending and sinking into the immeasurable oceans of the planet. All the planning, the labor, the willing, the phenomenal backbreaking hassle to get out on to that sea, it would all come to a conclusion right then and there. And he would be alone out there, just him and the waters that are God. And I hope – I assume – he would at last be at peace. I’m guessing that this is what it was all about in the end. 1

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John Wayne: American actor, famous for appearing in cowboy films

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6 3

The following passage is from a story that describes a world in the future. In this world people live indoors in isolation and rely solely on technology for all their needs. Vashti spends some of her time discussing ideas with other isolated people. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Continue the passage (between 120–150 words), although you do not have to bring it to a close. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

Then Vashti generated the light, and the sight of her room, flooded with radiance and studded with electric buttons, revived her. There were buttons and switches everywhere – buttons to call for food, for music, for clothing. There was the hot-bath button, by pressure of which a basin of (imitation) marble rose out of the floor, filled to the brim with a warm deodorized liquid. There was the cold-bath button. There was the button that produced literature. And there were of course the buttons by which she communicated with her friends. The room, though it contained nothing, was in touch with all that she cared for in the world. Vashti’s next move was to turn off the isolation switch, and all the accumulations of the last three minutes burst upon her. The room was filled with the noise of bells, and speaking-tubes. What was the new food like? Could she recommend it? Has she had any ideas lately? Might one tell her one’s own ideas? Would she make an engagement to visit the public nurseries at an early date? To most of these questions she replied with irritation – a growing quality in that accelerated age. She said that the new food was horrible. That she could not visit the public nurseries through press of engagements. That she had no ideas of her own but had just been told one: she doubted there was much in it. Then she switched off her correspondents, for it was time to deliver her lecture on Australian music. The clumsy system of public gatherings had been long since abandoned; neither Vashti nor her audience stirred from their rooms. Seated in her armchair she spoke, while they in their armchairs heard her, fairly well, and saw her, fairly well. She opened with a humorous account of music in the pre-Mongolian epoch, and went on to describe the great outburst of song that followed the Chinese conquest. Remote and primeval as were the methods of I-San-So and the Brisbane school, she yet felt (she said) that study of them might repay the musicians of today: they had freshness; they had, above all, ideas. Her lecture, which lasted ten minutes, was well received, and at its conclusion she and many of her audience listened to a lecture on the sea; there were ideas to be got from the sea; the speaker had donned a respirator and visited it lately. Then she fed, talked to many friends, had a bath, talked again, and summoned her bed. The bed was not to her liking. It was too large, and she had a feeling for a small bed. Complaint was useless, for beds were of the same dimension all over the world, and to have had an alternative size would have involved vast alterations in the Machine. Vashti isolated herself – it was necessary, for neither day nor night existed under the ground – and reviewed all that had happened since she had summoned the bed last. Ideas? Scarcely any. By her side, on the little reading-desk, was a survival from the ages of litter – one book. This was the Book of the Machine. In it were instructions against every possible contingency. If she was hot or cold or dyspeptic or at a loss for a word, she went to the book, and it told her which button to press. The Central Committee published it. In accordance with a growing habit, it was richly bound. Sitting up in the bed, she took it reverently in her hands. She glanced round the glowing room as if some one might be watching her. Then, half ashamed, half joyful, she murmured ‘O Machine! O Machine!’ and raised the volume to her lips. Thrice she kissed it, thrice inclined her head, thrice she felt the delirium of acquiescence. Her ritual performed, she turned to page 1367, which gave the times of the departure of © UCLES 2012

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7 the airships from the island in the southern hemisphere, under whose soil she lived, to the island in the northern hemisphere, whereunder lived her son. She thought, ‘I have not the time.’ She made the room dark and slept; she awoke and made the room light; she ate and exchanged ideas with her friends, and listened to music and attended lectures; she made the room dark and slept. Above her, beneath her, and around her, the Machine hummed eternally; she did not notice the noise, for she had been born with it in her ears. The earth, carrying her, hummed as it sped through silence, turning her now to the invisible sun, now to the invisible stars. She awoke and made the room light.

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2 Answer two questions.

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The following passage, taken from a website, advertises the qualities and facilities of a hotelresort in Arizona, USA. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) A visitor to CopperWynd Resort and Club thinks that this description is very misleading and has been disappointed by her visit. She writes a letter to the manager expressing her dissatisfaction. Write the opening of the letter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

CopperWynd Resort and Club, an AAA Four Diamond boutique Arizona resort property, is nestled high on a mountain ridge above Scottsdale, Arizona, offering breathtaking views of the Arizona Sonoran Desert and mountain vistas. Our enchanting European-inspired guestrooms offer luxurious king-size beds with Italian linens, gas fireplaces, and private balconies where you can view spectacular hues of Arizona desert sunsets. The Spa at CopperWynd Resort is one of the best spas in Scottsdale, Arizona. The resort will inspire your soul. Swim in one of two azure pools, enjoy light menu dining at the Poolside Pavilion Bar and Grill, golf at nearby renowned courses, play tennis, work out in the 5,000 square foot fitness center and then complete your journey in Alchemy, CopperWynd’s award winning magical culinary adventure. Accommodation at Scottsdale’s CopperWynd Resort provides European-inspired luxury and comfort in a unique desert mountain resort setting in the beautifully scenic Scottsdale Sonoran Desert. There are few places that offer this level of exclusivity and breadth of amenities. Refined and rich with charm, Scottsdale’s CopperWynd Resort and Club is a place that wraps you in luxury and comfort. Each of the 42 oversized guestrooms and Resort Villas feature imported handmade furniture, granite counters, a gas burning fireplace, custom linens and a private terrace overlooking serene desert vistas. As a guest of CopperWynd Resort and Club, you’ll enjoy exclusive membership privileges at this world-class Club. The outstanding amenities and services of this private Scottsdale country club are otherwise inaccessible without membership. At CopperWynd, we believe dining, one of life’s greatest pleasures, should always be a special and memorable occasion. CopperWynd’s newest culinary dining experience, Alchemy, is an intimate dining spot that is a magical adventure, featuring floor to ceiling glass panels that slide open any time of day or night, revealing the wonderful sites of the Valley and Sonoran desert. Alchemy offers speciality appetizers, unusual entrées, amazing drinks and a whimsical, fun atmosphere for family, friends and guests. In addition to the intimate dining experience of Alchemy, you can relax with a co*cktail and enjoy a light meal at the Poolside Pavilion Bar and Grill. Whether you choose the elegant cuisine of Alchemy or the casual fare of the Poolside Pavilion Bar and Grill, every dining experience at CopperWynd will be one you’ll remember.

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Awards Conde Nast Award Winner, Travel & Leisure Award Winner.

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3 Tennis Courts on Site The Tennis Center at CopperWynd offers unequalled programs, amenities and services to tennis players of all skill levels. Championship facilities are staffed by leading tennis professionals. Our world-class facilities located in the heart of scenic Arizona include nine lighted championship courts featuring either Plexi Cushion surfaces or Premier Court cushioned surfaces. CopperWynd’s Professional Tennis Coaches offer specialized tennis camps for all levels of play.

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Banquets & Meetings The Event Lawn accommodates up to 400 guests and the Terrace up to 100 guests. Executive Retreat

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Alchemy’s Sonoran View Room accommodates 18–48 guests for corporate dining. Fitness Center CopperWynd Resort and Club offers a one-of-a-kind Health & Fitness Center designed to promote cardiovascular and strength training in a graciously appointed environment that focuses on individualized service. State-of-the-art fitness and free weight equipment allows you to work individually while our group training, aerobics, spinning and wellness classes provide fitness opportunities in a social setting. Professionally trained fitness trainers will design an individualized program to help you meet your goals. After your workout, relax in the comfort and quality of our fullservice locker rooms or spend time in our friendly Players Lounge. You may also choose to pamper yourself with a Spa treatment or relax in our steam or whirlpool spa.

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Child Programs Junior Development tennis program offers tennis lessons and The Kid’s Club has yoga, putting contests, arts and crafts.

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Pets Allowed Typically, pets are not allowed, but the general manager may make exceptions for guests who stay long periods. Spa Facility The exclusivity and elegance of our spa provides an array of European-inspired therapies for your indulgence. Featuring natural skin and body spa treatments, relaxing and rejuvenating signature massage treatments, manicures and pedicures, the Spa is where the body, mind and soul unite in unsurpassed luxury.

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Golfing CopperWynd guests enjoy preferred golf privileges at many local courses. Let our 70 sports concierge arrange your golf groups, tee-time reservations, and transportation to one area golf course of your choice. Scottsdale, Arizona, and the surrounding area is home to over 125 golf courses, many rated among the top 100 courses in the world. CopperWynd members and our guests at The Resort enjoy preferred golf privileges at many of these courses. Courses include the neighboring SunRidge 75 Canyon Golf Club’s championship course, The Golf Club at Eagle Mountain and We-Ko-Pa Golf Club. © UCLES 2013 8693/11/O/N/13 [Turn over

4 2

The following passage is an account of the writer’s experience of keeping animals at her home in the countryside. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

[15]

(b) The writer describes another episode in which she and her family have difficulty in dealing with a different animal. Write the opening of the episode (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Somehow, on that moonless and leaf-surrounded night, the co*ckerel managed to escape. I could hear him crashing about in the branches of the walnut tree that overhangs the hen house but I couldn’t see a thing. An earnest search was begun by John but not joined by me. Either I was very keen to get to bed or two glasses of wine with my supper had made me phlegmatic1. All would be well, I assured my husband. The co*ckerel wouldn’t stray far from the hens. Up in branches he would be safe from the fox. First thing in the morning we’d find him, I yawned. First thing in the morning I woke and felt guiltily ashamed about the false confidence I’d expressed the preceding night. Crawling quietly out of bed I crept out into a gleaming, dewy morning still wearing my nightdress and searched pointlessly about. Nothing. The wretched bird was nowhere to be seen. How could I have been so certain that his crowing would stake his whereabouts? My tennis shoes grew slimy inside, my nightdress was drenched, as I trailed back and forth through the grass gazing up into the thick leaves of the apple trees. Once more I trudged the length of the paddock uttering homely clucks. Passing the field shelter where the boys had built a wonderfully complex maze and den out of chicken wire and old hay (you crawled in at the side and wound your way round and round until you reached a central chamber), I sensed a stirring. Once more I clucked encouragement. Out of the middle of the primitive dome (it resembled a Mycenaean bee-hive tomb) an uncertain crowing arose. I ran to wake John. ‘In the maze!’ I panted. ‘Quick!’ Selfishly unwillingly to crawl into the maze in a nightdress, I waited outside while John dropped to his hands and knees. As his rear disappeared into the entrance, the co*ckerel shot out of the top of the dome with an elongated squawk and fled on speedily rocking legs towards the thick hedge and six-foot drop that divided our paddock from the cub scout2 camp. I, too, began to run. Then, imagining Daniel’s response to his mother bursting through the hedge in a wet, transparent nightdress, I turned and ran the other way to fetch a dressing gown. John passed me as he went in grim pursuit of the co*ckerel, his hair bristling with coarse hay. He hurtled into the hedge, stopped and very slowly retreated backwards as if he were on a piece of film being re-wound to edit. ‘They’re in the middle of prayers!’ he hissed having glimpsed the cubs, our son among them, ranged in a respectful line. As it turned out, it was kit inspection. Even so, the disarray could have been enormous. ‘Get them to help!’ I hissed back and ran to find something decent to wear. John I am told, leapt into the hedge, startled the concealed co*ckerel and scattered cub scouts in every direction. ‘Oh hello, Daddy,’ said Daniel as his father and a mass of screaming feathers broke through the inspection line. By the time I returned the scout leader had summoned every cub available to capture and return the co*ckerel. I could see them spread out in a ragged line, headed by John, toiling up Charley Hill towards Brick Kiln. In quite the wrong direction. As they headed west, I spied the co*ckerel, a streak of chestnut on yellow legs, scorch across Joss Edwin’s field and take a northerly dive through the hedge downhill through the fields that go towards Ladywell and Coombe Farm. © UCLES 2013

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5 Hollering my discovery, I set off and bounced downhill between skittish heifers, keeping the bird in vision. He plunged into a blackberry thicket densely criss-crossed with briars over a width of some ten feet, so tangled that although I knew he was in there I couldn’t see him at all. The others came stumbling downhill towards me and gazed dismally at the blackberry patch. Gossamer3, sheeting down the hill behind, suddenly caught the early sun, and glittered above us. ‘There’s nothing for it,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to go in there.’ The cubs encircling the blackberry patch, agreed. They all looked at John. ‘Yes,’ they said. ‘Mmm. You will.’ Daniel was silently hoping his father wouldn’t let him down at this important moment. ‘Here goes.’ It took courage. It is impossible to advance into a blackberry patch ten feet wide and twelve feet high without having all your exposed flesh ripped. Ultimately, you become suspended by your hair and must be prepared to lose a considerable amount of it if you are to achieve your object... this, in a man close enough to forty to fight for the halt of a receding hairline, is as noble a piece of behaviour as anything I’ve ever witnessed.

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1phlegmatic :

relaxed scout : part of the scout movement aimed at children aged 7–11 3gossamer : spiders’ webs 2cub

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6 3

The following extracts from a newspaper article describe how the writer experiences a challenging activity which ends in panic. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same writer decides to tackle another emotionally challenging activity. She writes another article about the experience. Write a section of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Early in the 1990s, I flew alone in a dandelion-yellow, single-engine, 180-horsepower Piper Cherokee from Westchester County Airport in New York westward to the Rocky Mountains, landing and refuelling a good many times in middle-sized cities and towns along the way. Though I had logged a mere six weeks of training beforehand, I had a kind of insouciant1, or call it daredevil, confidence – which was odd, because despite having acquired an automobile licence long before, for years I had been too fearful to drive even something so commonplace as the family car. The enforced speed of highways was terrifying, and the density of urban traffic shook me with the dread of losing control and crushing some hapless pedestrian. But the trackless vastness of those untrammelled upper airs was uncannily liberating; here even the noises were reassuring. On the ground, sounds were mainly zigzag, jagged, startlingly untrustworthy – every car horn a threat. In my fragment of sky (though I felt I owned the whole of it, past the horizon and into the celestial unknown) there was the constancy of a metronome: the steady throatiness of the engine, its cradling whirr as I pedalled the rudder to waltz my little ship left or right, and the ghostly hiss of wind on plexiglass, sometimes audible, sometimes only imagined. I thought of this fickle drifting pseudo-wind as a sort of aeronautical illusion, wavering in and out of hearing. The laws of physics seemed subverted: could this yellow capsule dancing between the nothingness above and the nothingness below, weightless as a soap bubble, really be heavier than air? The ailerons2 fluttered on the Cherokee’s wings like mimicking smaller wings; even their names were rejoicingly birdlike. The Cherokee lifted over the spine of the Appalachians, then wheeled above the waxy green of the Ozark Plateau, needling westward, and for a few exalting moments I could see its shadow painting the earth. When I let down the landing gear on the unexpected surfaces of those sparse Midwestern airfields, in places called Penitence and Rosedale, too often there was no tarmac, only a length of gravel. Mostly I spent the nights in run-down local hotels before taking off again at dawn, and once in a room-for-rent boarding house with an illicit smell. Another time, in a midnight field outside Denver, I napped for hours in the co*ckpit until my legs cramped with the cold. I was generally grimy; I didn’t care for the inconvenience of bathing – I was impatient to climb back up into the exhilarating nowhere that I alone could claim. In all the days of that journey the sky was never troubled by another pair of man-made wings. But when the Rockies were at last below me, heaving upward their mammoth stony shoulders, I all at once fell into a frenzy of vertigo, not simply a whirling of the head, but all through my torso, and into the soles of my feet. The Cherokee’s tail seemed to be rocking on its own, and the horizontal stabiliser began to shimmy in its cranny behind the fuselage. To slow the Cherokee, I lowered the flaps somewhat, and looked down into those black crevices among the mountains – hideous cuts and abysses carved out by the sun’s sharp light. And gazing dizzily into those dark valleys I caught sight of a tiny faraway living thing, all in green, flitting from cavern to © UCLES 2013

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7 cavern, less winged than human, a shape akin to that of a little man. Was it the trees twisting their leafy tops into fleeting images? And I heard rising up from the little man a distant meandering singing, as when a blade of grass is split and blown into, to bring out a high, narrow squeal. It wasn’t the tail, it wasn’t the stabiliser, it wasn’t the ailerons chattering wildly like tongues: the Cherokee was uninjured. It was myself, unbalanced. It was Panic. 1insouciant :

careless flaps on the wings of an airplane that can be used to control the plane’s movements 2ailerons:

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2 Answer two questions.

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The following passage, taken from a website, advertises the qualities and facilities of the One and Only hotel-resort in the Bahamas. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) A visitor to the One and Only Ocean Club is not satisfied with his stay at the hotel. He writes a review of the hotel-resort on a travel website for tourists planning a holiday in the Bahamas. Write a section of the review (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

One and Only Ocean Club is legendary in its reputation for entertaining the world’s elite for more than 45 years. Here, service is elevated to a fine art form by gracious staff welcoming you into their colonial plantation home. Warm and inviting accommodation, and residential-style villas ideal for families. Dining that is renowned and unforgettable, featuring the imaginative cuisine of chef Jean-George Vongerichten. A playground of world-class golf, tennis, spa indulgences, and of course, water. The elixir of Bahamian life, the spectacular blue waters of the Caribbean, are explored with a rich roster of activities – diving, snorkeling, sailing, skiing, windsurfing. And always, just relaxing along the shoreline of a pristine beach. The Versailles inspired hotel enjoys an entire mile of private beach. The club is highly private and exclusive, and guests are pampered by butler service. The grounds at One and Only Ocean Club invite guests to stroll through the gardens or lounge in a hammock. Enjoy complimentary Aquacat and Hobiecat sailing, snorkeling, aqua bikes, paddleboats, kayaking and bicycling. Scuba lessons and diving excursions can be arranged through the Concierge. At the heart of One and Only Ocean Club is the allure of water. Miles of pristine white sand beach are described as some of the most beautiful in the world. Take a swim in the languid Versailles Pool, for adults ages 14 and older. Poolside concierge services include Evian misting, CD players and music selections, newspapers and magazines, sunglass cleaning and complimentary 5-minute foot massages. The new separate Family Pool is designed for younger guests, complete with waterfall and aqua toys.

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Awards Conde Nast Award Winner, Travel & Leisure Award Winner. 25

Recommended Rooms Beachfront suites with parlors and doors that open to the water are recommended. Nestled into the resort’s intimate setting are two wings – the Hartford Wing and the Crescent Wing. With its classic Colonial architecture, the two-storey Hartford Wing offers guestrooms and suites with lovely views of the ocean or garden grounds. This wing features 50 rooms (340 sq. ft), four suites (830 sq. ft.) and a cluster of two-bedroom garden cottages located in the gardens, just beyond the pool. All Hartford Wing accommodation was completely refurbished in late 2001. The five new two-storey buildings of the Crescent Wing offer luxury guestrooms and suites, all with commanding views of endless beach and ocean from a private balcony or terrace. This wing features 40 beachfront rooms (550 sq. ft.) and 10 beachfront suites (1100 sq. ft.). All accommodation features a private balcony or terrace, central © UCLES 2013

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3 air conditioning, indoor and outdoor ceiling fans, DVD and CD players, satellite television, Internet access, service bars, marble appointed bathrooms with double sinks, and safes. In-room guest amenities include bathrobes, signature soaps and toiletries, and other features expected in European luxury hotels.

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Meeting Space One and Only Ocean Club now offers facilities for small scale executive meetings and receptions. A new executive boardroom with seating for 20 is situated in a colonial-style building with a patio offering views of the Versailles pool and gardens. The comfortable covered patio makes an ideal setting for a banquet or pre or post meeting reception. The 850-square-foot Hartford Room is a secondary meeting option with flexible setup.

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Fine Dining on Site The Bahamanian lobster chilli is recommended at Jean-Georges Vongerichten’s Dune. Tempting flavors and enchanting aromas meld into delectable cuisine. At One and Only Ocean Club, your choices for stellar dining are exceptional. Whether you prefer a casual breakfast served on your terrace, a light lunch poolside, or an intimate dinner for two beneath a canopy of stars or overlooking the sea, there is something to satisfy every appetite. A gourmet in-room dining menu is also available 24 hours a day.

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Spa Facility The Mandara Spa is in the Balinese style, with private treatment villas, baths, and gardens. The extraordinary One and Only Spa at Ocean Club is undeniably one of the finest, most luxurious spas in The Bahamas and Caribbean. Featuring eight Balinese-style private treatment villas with open-air gardens, the Spa offers a sensual and rejuvenating experience. La Palestra, the top fitness operators in New York City, bring their talents to the One and Only Ocean Club Fitness Center through innovative design, individually-tailored exercise programs and group classes. Complimentary one-hour yoga classes are offered daily on the beach deck, and private sessions for physical and spiritual well-being are offered for a fee.

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Golfing This 18-hole, par 72 championship course is designed by Tom Weiskopf and operated by Troon Golf. Weiskopf’s PGA course features meticulous seaside green and tee settings, alternating fairways and breathtaking signature holes stretched over 7,100 yards. An on-site Pro Shop, pro and Clubhouse complement this remarkable golfing experience. Tee times can be reserved 60 days in advance of the requested day of play and will be held with the authorization of a major credit card.

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The following newspaper article describes the writer’s new home in Ireland, where he lives in an old police station known as the ‘Barracks’. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same writer moves to the country where you live and finds another home there. He writes another article about his new life. Write the opening of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

The house smelled of old sergeants. It was thirty years since it had been used as a police station, but there were still bars on the windows of the rooms out back. The echo of our footsteps across the stone floors broke the long silence that filled the house. As we pushed through the creaking doors, each room was a pocket of trapped time, as if the silence was just a pause in some hard conversation with a ghost of the local felonry1. There was rising damp, peeling paint and homicidal electrics.

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“It does need a little work,” the estate agent said. My girlfriend and I exchanged a worried look – we knew at once that this old mess was home. There is a German word, weltschmerz, that describes a feeling of homesickness for a place you’ve never been, and I knew that the Barracks, as it was still known, might ease such a feeling in me. There was a leaking chimney, a halfacre of weeds and a general air of drizzle. It had a vantage view over a smoke-grey lake and was surrounded by reed fields, and their summer gold was fading, and I worried at once that this was a place to inspire overly limpid prose. But it was time I put down a root. I was thirty-six. This would be the first house I could call my own. Over the previous decade and a half I had lived at seventeen addresses across nine cities of Ireland, Britain, the United States and Spain. The psyche fractures from so much itinerant wandering. You’re never sure where you are when you wake up in the morning. You turn into a street in the city you’re living in and you expect a different city, a different street. You find that you’re living in the amalgam place of a dream. Also, there was the situation with the books – there were by this time more than 50 large boxes of them. Recent moves had required the hiring of lorries for the books alone. We needed a place to keep the books. We moved in. We painted the walls. We sanded floorboards. We kept the bars on the windows, in memory of those old sergeants. We got all the old chimneys patched up and cleared and we lit fires. A child of suburbia, I was at first freaked out by the sheer quiet at night and by the utter darkness that descended on the lake and the hills. The willows caught eerily in the wind. There were mystery rustlings from the hedgerows. But there was a calm about the barracks itself – an odd comfort seeped from its old bricks. I took the upstairs landing for my workspace and faced the desk away from the view. But every few minutes I would creep up on the window. Just water, and cattle, and wooded hills rising into mist, but a storied past can project a rush of images to a suggestible mind. The lake makes the most of what light there is and refracts it; and the light has a peculiar intensity, a luminescence. Quickly, as we settled, I began to feel an unaccustomed creep of contentment. © UCLES 2013

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5 Happiness, for me, has tended to be retrospective. I’m generally moaning and grizzling at the time, but as soon as I leave a place I become nostalgic for it. And in the Barracks, as I cooled my heels, I grew almost pathologically wistful for the cities and flats and houses I had lived in. If they were full of grey ennui2 at the time, their colours came through in memory. Memories are stirred each day as I cycle the countryside. After a sullen morning at the desk, and then the slapstick of my attempts at DIY, I pedal through the drizzle and the quiet. The effort required for the steep gradients of the hills releases endorphins3 and these cause a giddiness. As I ratchet up the gears, I make up nonsense songs and sing them aloud. There are farmers in the vicinity who may believe me not to be the full shilling4. If I cycle a little faster, the past gives way to the moment, and the moment has its own romances. It would take a heart of stone not to imagine a music for the place names I pass by: Templehouse Lake, the Plain of Moytura, Ballindoon Abbey, the Caves of Keash. The names have melody and are themselves a song. Nowadays I make frequent jailbreaks from the Barracks. Bleak February groans to life and I’m history – I bolt for Spain. But when I’m away now I think about the chair by the stove in the Barracks, the squishy red armchair in which I plan to grow old, placid and handsomely fat.

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1felonry :

criminal inhabitants boredom 3endorphins : stimulating chemicals in the brain 4not to be the full shilling : slightly deranged 2ennui :

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The following passage describes the writer’s experience of climbing. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same writer decides to tackle another physically challenging activity. He writes another account of the experience. Write a section of the account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

My legs burn, but it’s nothing compared with my lungs.

Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

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Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

Knowing that doesn’t make me any less cold.

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2 Answer two questions.

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The following passage, taken from a website, advertises the qualities and facilities of the Amanjena resort in Morocco. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) The same international hotel company opens another luxury hotel in the country where you live. This hotel is intended to reflect aspects of your country. Write a section of the advertisem*nt (between 120–150 words) for the hotel which appears on a website. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Amanjena (“peaceful paradise”) is the first Aman resort on the African continent. The resort’s 32 pavilions, six, two-storey maisons and largest accommodation, the Al-Hamra Maison, are set within an oasis of palms and mature olive trees. Amanjena’s rose-blush walls mirror Marrakech, known in Arabic as Al Medina al-Hamra (the red city). The resort’s design emulates the old Moorish pise (packed earth) buildings, as well as the Berber villages that cling to the High Atlas Mountains. Marrakech was brought to radiant life by the brilliance of 11th-century Almoravid irrigation. Water is no less the unifying element of Amanjena, which has as its centrepiece a large basin, traditionally a holding pool to collect water for irrigation. Amanjena’s pavilions extend from the basin, fanning out in two directions, separated by reflecting pools in a landscape of lawns and vines, emerald-clay roofs, marble fountains and glittering hand-cut, glazed zellij (tiles). All of the resort’s 32 air-conditioned pavilions include a bedroom-living room and spacious bathroom and dressing area. The living area consists of a high, domed ceiling, a king-size platform bed and an open fireplace. Brass lanterns and Berber carpets discreetly reinforce the Moroccan theme. Furnishings include a daybed with an accompanying table and chair. The suites have a mini-bar, a CD player and a TV/ DVD, while green Moroccan marble and a soaking tub in a garden setting highlight the bathroom. Each pavilion has its own private courtyard along with a pillared minzah1 and a fountain. Amanjena’s six two-storey buildings rise seven metres from floor to ceiling in a variation of the Moroccan townhouse, with second-floor windows looking inward, as if to a garden courtyard. The living area, located on the main floor, features an arc-cut fireplace, a zellij wall fountain and a small bathroom. The guest bedroom, with its queen-size bed, full bathroom, double change areas and separate courtyard entrance, is also located on the entry level. Upstairs, the bathroom is defined by marble columns, domed shower, toilet rooms and a pillared, green-marble tub. The bedroom comes with a king-size bed and divan. Each of the residences also offers a private six-metre swimming pool, a garden and minzah. With a convenient location at the edge of Marrakech, Amanjena provides the ideal base for further exploration of Marrakech and beyond. The city itself, with its gardens, souks2, art and culture, is just seven kilometres away and the resort looks out onto the snow-capped High Atlas Mountains, the highest range in North Africa. Carefully constructed private tours and treks, taking in local highlights, are easily arranged.

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Shopping There are three boutiques within the cedar-ceiling colonnade that follows the swimming pool. The shops have some exclusive objects including a good selection of Moroccan art and handicrafts, jewellery, brass lanterns, pottery and antiques. All the linens, which include shawls, tablecloths, caftans and djellabas3, are hand© UCLES 2013

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3 woven. Also, there is a profusion of shopping options within Marrakech. A number of specialist antique shops have recently opened and the souks have much diversity. Rural markets, with their vegetables, sheep heads, mules, saddles and portable steam baths, are a delightful distillation of everyday Moroccan life. Amanjena offers two shopping tours taking in the Medina.

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Recommended Rooms The largest accommodation is the Al-Hamra Maison which has an extensive 180-square-metre pavilion, indoor dining and sitting area and its own private butler service. Two bedrooms are linked by an open passageway to the shared garden where there are two minzahs for dining and lounging and a private 40-square-metre heated pool.

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Fine Dining on Site

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Specialising in local Moroccan cuisine, the Restaurant features a scalloped onyx fountain ringed by date palms, 80 onyx columns, wood screens and a pyramid skylight. It is open for dinner. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are served in the Thai Restaurant, which offers Thai and International cuisine indoors and in a garden courtyard. Breakfast, lunch and refreshments are served at the Pool Terrace and during the summer season, dinner too. The Bar (and fumoir) features smoke-tinted mirrors, old Berber daggers and Arab swords.

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Pool, Outdoor Amanjena’s heated outdoor 33-metre swimming pool is finished in green tiles and bordered by hibiscus flowers. There is a separate shallow pool.

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Spa Facility The hammam or steam bath is central to Moroccan life. Unsurprisingly, it has pride of place at the heart of the Amanjena Health and Beauty Centre. Each hammam (one each for men and women) is complemented by showers, washrooms, a change area and glassed-in whirlpool. Treatments at the beauty centre include massages, manicures, pedicures and facials. The Centre also features a timber-floor gym.

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Tennis Courts on Site Two tennis courts, lit for night play, are available with minzahs at either end for drinks and breaks. 70

Biking, Mountain Mountain bikes may be rented for riding the paved pathways leading from Amanjena to the golf course and the garden villas. Guests may also explore the Marrakech palm oasis on trails passing clumps of wild grape, hibiscus, and olive groves. 1minzah:

garden pavilion markets 3djellabas: cloaks with hoods 2souks:

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The following account describes the writer’s return to a place where he once lived a solitary life. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) One of the writer’s daughters is not as keen on the remote cottage and lifestyle as her father is. She records her thoughts and feelings in her diary. Write a section of the diary entry (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

It is late February, grey and cold. The clouds have settled over the hills. It will be at least a month before the first of the spring birds arrive; even the curlews have not got back yet from the coast. But there are still the first hesitant signs of spring. Woodpeckers drum continually in the forest, the garden is adrift with snowdrops. My fruit tree has its first green shoots and the bullfinches have already come to nip them in the bud. The local pair of red kites are circling over the copse of oaks where they nest. Every now and then one will stall in mid-soar and drop into their nesting tree, like an arrow pointing straight to their nest. This advertisem*nt is not for me, but for the neighbouring kites, circling in further skies. I am tired when I arrive, but I cannot put my feet up just yet. The house is stony cold and before anything else I must get a log fire burning, that will burn for the duration of my stay. Then I must haul water from the well on the hillside below before darkness falls. I learned to become self-sufficient in every sense of the word. I was never bored; there was always too much to be done. Chopping wood, fetching water, foraging. Weeding, walking, watching. No neighbours, no vehicles, no phone. It was possible to walk west from the cottage for twenty miles without coming to another house or a road. You might think that such protracted solitude would lead to introspection, to selfexamination, to a growing self-awareness. But not for me. What happened to me was that I began to forget myself, my focus shifted almost entirely outwards to the natural world outside my window. It was as if we gain our sense of self from our interaction with other people; from the reflection of ourselves we see in the eyes of another. Alone, there was no need for identity, for self-definition. The process was a gradual one. During my years in the hills I kept a journal. For the first year it is a conventional diary; places I had gone, things I had done. By the second year it is little more than a nature journal; what birds I had seen that day, perhaps some notes on the weather. By the third year it is no more than a calendar, marking the turn of the seasons by the comings and goings of migrant birds and their nesting dates, interspersed by the occasional detailed depiction of a moment, perhaps the flight of a single bird. I am an absence, a void, I have disappeared from my own story. I could have stayed forever; becoming, no doubt, steadily more reclusive and eccentric. I had the measure of this life now, it had long since ceased to feel like any kind of a challenge; this was just me living the life I had chosen. What led me away in the end was a visceral, almost bodily, craving to have children… My lifestyle is very different now. I live in a flat in town, a five-minute walk from the sea, with my two daughters. I sometimes take them to the part of the world where I used to live, but I always try to arrange my life so that every now and then I still get the opportunity to visit the cottage for a little alone time. When I get there I bring the busyness of town with me, and I rush around looking for storm damage, checking to © UCLES 2013

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5 see if the mice have breached my defences and raided my cache of food, checking my wood supply, my water supply. But when darkness falls and I light a few candles for the evening and put my feet up by the fireside, the scales of society fall from my eyes, and time slips away. In the morning I rise with the light and set out to visit the ravens. They are the early birds, the very first to nest. The site they have chosen is absurdly beautiful, in a tiny copse of trees on the sheerest slope of my mountain, looking out across the valley at the hills beyond. They have chosen the same tall tree to nest in for more than twenty successive years to my knowledge. These are long-lived birds and it’s quite plausible this has been the same pair throughout. As I come into view, the pair fly out and over my head, calling to let me know they have spotted me. A drifting buzzard1 approaches a little too close to the nest and they gang up to drive it away, mobbing it relentlessly in pincer formation. The buzzard doesn’t stand a chance. Then the pair circle back. First one, and then the other, flips over on to its back and flies upside down, in display, in celebration. It’s good to be back. 1buzzard:

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The following passage describes the writer’s visit to Neverland, once owned by the pop star Michael Jackson. Neverland was built as a large fantasy home. The writer meets Elizabeth Taylor, a famous film star and friend of Michael Jackson. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Continue the account (between 120–150 words), although you do not have to bring it to a conclusion. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Neverland, a toytown wilderness of carnival rides and doll houses and zoo animals

Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

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Content removed due to copyright restrictions.

circular drive in front of Michael’s house, a statue of Mercury (god of merchandise and merchants). 1bangs:

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following text is taken from an account of the writer’s visit to Lagos in Nigeria, Africa. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to convey the writer’s thoughts and feelings. [15] (b) Later the writer produces an account of a similar event she attends in your own country. Write a section of this account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

It is Nigeria’s independence day and there is a flag—a shiny green, white, green— fluttering from the Mercedes Benz in front of us. My brother Okey and I are driving on Victoria Island, where real estate is expensive, although you would not guess so from the pile of rubbish by the roadside, brightly colored bottles and plastic bags— not aesthetically unpleasing, if you can forget that it is stinky rubbish. We’re in traffic. I like to peer into people’s cars in Lagos traffic and imagine lives for them. Okey tries to change lanes, but the other drivers nudge their cars forward as soon as there is a slice of space between them and the next bumper. “Lagos drivers will never let you enter,” Okey mutters. He has only recently moved to Lagos from the quieter Anambra State. The week before, on his way to work, a rusty yellow bus swerved suddenly and shattered his side mirror. The driver came out and lay flat on the ground, saying, “You are a human being like me! You know I cannot do this on purpose!” The Mercedes ahead of us crawls forward. Sellers are darting around—holding out phone-recharge cards, packets of plantain chips, newspapers, plastic bottles of orange dipped in water to make them look freshly cold. A young boy approaches our car, armed with a spray bottle of soapy water and a rag. Okey turns on the wipers, to discourage him, but the boy still squirts the water and makes to clean the windscreen. Okey increases the wiper speed. The boy glares at him and moves to the next car. The traffic is moving. I buy a TW magazine—a pretty, photoshopped newscaster is on the cover—from one of the sellers who also pushes last month’s American Cosmo and British Elle against my window. TW is published by my friend Adesuwa, and Okey and I are going to an event to mark the second year of its publication. I like Adesuwa’s magazine because it doesn’t do the kind of blind borrowing from America that a lot of other women’s magazines do in Nigeria; it doesn’t have recipes for broccoli or asparagus, or articles about junior and senior proms. The venue is Fantasy Land, a small amusem*nt park, the sort of place children are taken to see Father Christmas in December. But this time there are chairs arranged around an elevated stage, covered in gauzy white cloth, tied with ribbons, festive, almost wedding-like. The guests are mostly women, and all the ushers are in tight jeans and T-shirts that say TW IS 2. We sing the national anthem, an unusual way to start an event (prayers are the norm), but it is our independence day, after all. I notice that the woman in front of me, who is wearing large gold earrings, does not know the words of the anthem. Okey leans in to ask if I think we will recite the pledge, too, and if we will have to raise a hand in a salute as we did in primary school. We don’t recite the pledge. Instead Adesuwa climbs up to the stage. She is shapely and chic in her jeans and high heels. “God has been faithful to me,” she says. “I attribute it all to God. Please clap for God!” © UCLES 2014

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3 Everyone claps furiously. They look at the person next to them to make sure they, too, are clapping for God. And because I am thinking of writing this letter from Lagos, I decide then that the first line should be this: Lagos is all about God—and also about cologne and phones. People walk past you and then follows the cloud of perfume or cologne; with smelling good for the average Lagosian, subtlety is not the point. And everyone is holding a phone. Phone conversations go on in the row behind me, in the row ahead, mostly repetitions of “Eh? I can’t hear you. The network is bad.” There is a comedian on stage. People are laughing. He introduces Waje. Contemporary Nigerian music is exploding and the comedian tells us she is the “next big thing.” She is a young woman whose stage outfit, a winged skirt, makes her look like a butterfly. She sings in Igbo1, in a voice so clear it startles, and then follows a sort of disco performance with lots of prancing about. Obiwon comes on stage. He is better known than Waje but still not famous enough to be played on the FM stations often. He has clearly watched a lot of Michael Jackson. He is slender and is wearing a white jacket and elegant black trousers. He slides and shimmies and his song, “Obim,” is one of the most beautiful I have ever heard. People are standing up to sway along. I stand, too, and feel, for a moment, that odd sense of liking people I don’t know. 1 Igbo:

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one of the main languages spoken in Nigeria

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The following text is taken from an online review of a mobile phone. The reviewer treats the mobile phone as if it were a contestant in the international television programme The X Factor, in which judges assess performers who wish to become stars in the music world. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to portray the features and qualities of the mobile phone. [15] (b) Another writer produces a positive review of the same mobile phone. Write a section of this review (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Verdict You can blame it on stage fright, but when the lights go up, the 5217 pales in comparison to rival budget phones. Despite its self-proclaimed star quality, it just doesn’t have the X factor to win our vote. We might have our quibbles about their performance in the high-end smart phone market, but one thing the crazy company knows how to do is bring affordable, easyto-use mobiles to the masses. Well masses, get ready to celebrate, because we’re here to review the 5217. It also comes in a talented X Factor-themed version, so we’re giving this review an X Factor theme, too. Enter stage right

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Hello and welcome to the tech auditions. We’ve gathered the world’s cruellest, most heartless tech judges together to shatter the dreams of aspiring gadgets from all over the country. Without further delay, let’s meet our first performer: the 5217 mobile telephone. The 5217 hails from a little-known European country, and has the dream of bringing happiness to mobile-hungry people with its 3.2-inch resistive touchscreen, built-in accelerometer and 2-megapixel camera. Will that support be enough to impress our judges?

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FIND OUT AFTER THE BREAK. Fat lip

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Stood trembling before us on stage, we have to say the 5217 isn’t much of a looker. Rather chunky at 111 by 51.7 by 15.5 mm, this mobile doesn’t have the rockstar chic of more slender handsets, and it’s liable to bulk out your pocket somewhat if you stuff it in your jeans. With a dull, silvery sheen covering the front and back of the handset, there’s not a great deal of glamour to go around, either. The sourest note is an ugly plastic lip that surrounds the 5217’s faceplate, and really breaks up what could have been a smooth, sleek design. Around the edges of this frumpy phone you’ll find mechanical volume keys, a camera button, power switch, 3.5 mm socket for headphones, micro-USB port and two covered ports for your SIM and microSD card. So, not much of a looker then – our judges’ fingers are poised over the buzzers. But looks can be deceiving, so we’re going to give the 5217 a chance. © UCLES 2014

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5 Sadly, unlocking the 3.2-inch screen and revealing the display doesn’t give us too much cause for celebration. When this mobile opens its mouth we can see that the display is set quite far back from the actual screen. It’s a little disappointing because, although the display is quite bright and offers a decent resolution (640 x 360 pixels), that extra distance makes it look a little dull. Needless to say, photos and video on this phone won’t look great. As far as the display goes, the 5217, it’s a ‘no’ from us. The interface itself will be familiar to anyone who’s owned or used a similar phone before. The layout is pretty simple and intuitive, which definitely works in this phone’s favour. Even though it’s a resistive rather than capacitive touchscreen, we found tapping out texts and navigating the phonebook was reasonably straightforward. On the other hand, this phone falls flat as soon as you try and do anything a little more complicated with it. The Web applications aren’t very intuitive, and they’re so loaded with security pop-ups that doing anything in a hurry quickly becomes a real pain. The only thing that stopped this mobile from being escorted from the stage was a generous smattering of pre-loaded software, such as Facebook, MySpace and Amazon apps. The 5217 definitely shows potential here, as we can see these apps coming in handy. What about the 5217’s 2-megapixel camera? Will it wow the judges? Or is this a national embarrassment? We’ll tell you. AFTER THE BREAK. Ba bum bum.

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Paparazzi Welcome back. Before the break, we saw the 5217’s Web capabilities failing to impress the judges. It’s dying on stage. Can the 5217’s camera tech save it from elimination? Actually, yes! The 2-megapixel snapper on the rear of this bad boy might not be stage-stealing hardware on its own, but the camera software on offer here is impressively swift. Affordable mobiles like this often pack fruit-throwingly terrible software, creating a sluggish snapshot experience that prevents you from capturing the moment. Not this shutterbug. We were equally impressed with the speed of the camcorder app and the frame rate of recorded footage during playback. The nifty camera might have distracted our judges momentarily, but the disappointing lack of 3G and Wi-Fi connectivity is a dealbreaker. The final, unforgivable flaw of this phone is that the only X Factor content included is a pre-installed app, which shows you a few videos from the show before crashing spectacularly. Since there’s obviously been so little effort made to theme this phone, we sort of wish we hadn’t gone to so much trouble to write this tortuous themed review. Security, escort this phone from the stage.

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In the following text the writer describes his relatives’ experiences just before German forces entered Vienna, in Austria, in 1938. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to portray the events and atmosphere of the day. [15] (b) Basing your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract, continue the account (between 120–150 words). You do not need to bring the account to a close. [10]

It is a flood of brown shirts. There are taxi horns blaring and there are men with weapons on the streets, and somehow the police have swastika armbands. There are trucks rushing along the Ring1, past the house, past the university towards the Town Hall. And the trucks have swastikas on them, and the trams have swastikas on them, and there are young men and boys hanging off them, shouting and waving.

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And someone turns out the lights in the library, as if being in the dark will make them invisible, but the noise reaches into the house, into the room, into their lungs. Someone is being beaten in the street below. What are they going to do? How long can you pretend this is not happening? Some friends pack a suitcase and go out into the street, push through these swirling, eddying masses of ecstatic citizens of Vienna to get to the Westbanhof. The night train to Prague leaves at 11.15, but by nine it is completely packed. Men in uniforms swarm through the train and pull people off. By 11.15 Nazi flags are hanging from the parapets of government ministries. At half-past midnight President Miklas gives in and approves the cabinet. At 1.08 a.m. a Major Klausner announces from the balcony ‘with deep emotion in this festive hour that Austria is free, that Austria is National Socialist.’ There are queues of people on foot or in cars at the Czech frontier. The radio is now playing the Badenweiler and the Hofenfriedberger, German military marches. These are interspersed with slogans. The first Jewish shop windows are broken.

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And it is on that first night that the sounds of the street become shouting in the courtyard, echoing around the walls and on the roof. There are feet pounding up the stairs, the thirty-three shallow steps to the apartment on the second floor. There are fists on the door, someone leaning on the bell, and there are eight or ten, a knot of them in some sort of uniform – some with swastika armbands, some familiar. Some are still boys. It is one o’clock in the morning and no one is asleep, everyone is dressed. Viktor and Emmy and Rudolf are pushed into the library. This first night they swarm through the apartment. There are shouts from across the courtyard, as a couple of them have found the salon with its French ensembles of furniture and porcelain. There is laughter from someone as Emmy’s closet is ransacked. Someone bangs out a tune on the piano keys. Some men are in the study pulling out drawers, roughing up the desks, pushing the folios off the stand in the corner. They come into the library and tip the globes from their stands. This convulsive disordering, messing up, is barely looting; it is a stretching of muscles, a cracking of the knuckles, a loosening up. The people in the corridors are checking, looking, exploring, working out what is here. They take the silver candlesticks from the dining-room. Silver cigarette boxes, money held in a clip from Viktor’s study. A small Russian clock, pink enamel and gold, that © UCLES 2014

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7 rang the hours in the salon. And the large clock from the library with its golden dome held up by columns. The last door they reach is Emmy’s dressing-room in the corner, and they sweep everything off the desk she uses as a dressing-table: the small mirror and the porcelain and the silver boxes and the flowers sent up from the meadows, and they drag the desk out into the corridor. They push Emmy and Viktor and Rudolf against the wall, and three of them heave the desk and send it crashing over the handrail until, with a sound of splintering wood and gilt and marquetry, it hits the stone flags of the courtyard below.

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This desk – the wedding present from Paris – takes a long time to fall. The sounds ricochet off the glass roof. The broken drawers scatter letters across the courtyard. It is not that you cannot sleep. You cannot go to bed. When these men and boys finally go, they say that they’ll be back, and you know they mean it. Emmy is wearing her pearls and they take them off. They take her rings. Someone pauses to spit handsomely at your feet. And they clatter down the stairs, shouting until they reach the courtyard. One takes a run to kick the debris, and they are out through the doors onto the Ring, a large clock under an overcoated arm.

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Snow is on its way. All that day, squadrons of planes fly low over Vienna. Viktor and Emmy do not know what to do. They do not know where to go, as that Sunday morning the first German troops cross the border to be met with flowers and crowds. The story is that Hitler is returning home to visit the grave of his mother. 1Ring :

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following text is taken from an account of the writer’s experience of extreme weather in Vietnam, in South East Asia. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to convey the impact of the weather and people’s reactions to it. [15] (b) The writer produces another account of extreme weather (real or imaginary) in a different part of the world. Write a section of this account (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

Mornings in Vietnam in the rainy season: I must remember to push the mattress up on its side when I get up, before doing anything else. If not, it becomes heavier and heavier with moisture, the pungent stink of mildew1 pinching my nose at night. In the rainy season, everything I do is a strategy for coping with the damp chill and the water. I didn’t grow up here. The water infiltrates my consciousness. I learn to accept it, like the others around me, to see it as a minor disruption. In the rainy season, I must remember to keep my showers to a few minutes, no matter how good it feels to have the water pounding my back, soothing away the chill. The water slowly seeps through the cement between the shower stall and bedroom, impregnates the wall, a sheen of tiny droplets over my bed. Another thing to remember: never leave the pillows propped up against the wall. In the rainy season, I mustn’t boil water for tea or cook anything that produces too much steam, adding to the weight of moisture hanging in the air. The excess humidity settles: a visible mist upon the clothes hanging in my closet, turning them into a new life form, furry and spotted. Every surface a wick for moisture.

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In the rainy season, I am thankful that my home is in this neighbourhood, this alley, so much higher than the main road. While the rich sleep in their attics, or on their roofs, the swirling, muddy water laps at my door sill, but doesn’t enter. I grab my umbrella and head out for breakfast. I push open the waterlogged left panel of my carved wooden door. My umbrella mushrooms out with a snap and a dull whomp, displacing water-filled air. Rain sheets down from our red tiled roof. My nephew, radiant in his purple rain poncho, a canary yellow motorcycle helmet pushed down over the hood, stands under the eaves, rain rat-a-tat-tatting down from the roof onto the helmet. A duet with the drumming rain on my umbrella. Pausing a moment in the ankle-deep water, we listen to the call-and-response rhythm we make together. He laughs a great belly-laugh and roars off on his motorbike, the water a tall rooster-tail behind him. Looking at the world from under my rose-coloured umbrella, I wade down the alley with its gold walls, under grey skies and green leaves. The lane falls to meet the road. The water rises to my knees, threatens my jeans, rolled up thigh-high. Each step an eternity, pushing against the flow, my toes seeking the edge of the sidewalk. Stepping out into the main road triggers a memory from the year before: this corner © UCLES 2014

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3 is where the pavement dips into a pothole, where I twisted an ankle under the murky water.

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I can’t see my feet, or even my knees. The Perfume River, not knowing its boundaries, or refusing to have any, overflows the banks, invades the road and climbs the steps of shops and homes. In the rainy season, instead of my usual coffee and soup on the bank of the river, I head for the very back of a restaurant I never set foot in during good weather. The tables near the front are prone to the fine mist that kicks up from the waterskimmed entrance, pummelled by the onslaught of rain. I’m lucky to find an empty seat. Waiting for breakfast, I watch the river swelling over the road, up the three steps and into the crowded restaurant.

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Inhaling the aroma of bitter coffee, I watch boys swimming and casting their fishing lines, shouting and laughing in the river that used to be the road. A group of teens cycles past, four abreast, wearing purple and pink ponchos. Laughing, pushing at the pedals, they move in slow motion, tires submerged. One of them struggles but cannot avoid a branch drifting into his path.

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Across from the restaurant, several tourists raise their cameras to snap souvenirs of a small girl hugging her wiry dog on the roof of her home. Down the road the water is higher; another dog stands on the hood of a taxi, barking at the water as it rises, lapping over the hood.

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Awaiting my food, I peer through the breakfast bustle to watch the tourists point their cameras at the rising river and the falling rain. They laugh and curse and squeal as the water soaks their pant legs, rolled up to their crotches, giving them a bowlegged gait 2 as they enter the restaurant in squelching shoes. After breakfast, I venture out of the shelter of the restaurant and back into the flood, the chill soaking into my bones. Bits of flotsam—a plastic water bottle, a piece of someone’s front door—bob against me as I struggle against the current until I reach my alley. I wonder if this is the year the water will rise up my walls.

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The following text is taken from a newspaper review of a biography about Simon Cowell, the creator of, and judge on, the international television programme The X Factor, a show in which contestants compete in a talent competition to become stars in the music world. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to portray Simon Cowell.

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(b) One of Simon Cowell’s personal assistants writes to the newspaper to offer a far more positive view of his employer. Write a section of this letter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Simon Cowell, I’ve heard it said, is so vain that if he went to a funeral he’d want to be the corpse. But the net effect of this admirably level-headed biography is that Cowell seems dead already. Suffocated by his vast wealth – sums such as $300 million, $700 million and $6 billion are bandied about – Cowell’s life has become positively and transcendentally boring, drained completely of colour, bustle and humour. He spends six solid hours a day clamped to the phone, policing his vast empire, discussing sponsorship and licensing deals and calculating all the advertising revenue and royalties.

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He can never relax, for fear his power will ebb. The rest of his waking hours are devoted to examining DVDs of The X Factor and Britain’s Got Talent, fretting about the sound-mix or the lighting. When not doing this, he is in his private jet, looking at his iPhone to scan the Google alerts of his name. Apart from five housekeepers, an estate manager, two groundsmen, a chef and a chauffeur, three personal assistants and a personal manager, Cowell mistrusts friendship or ordinary human relationships, with their obligations and unpredictability. He was always spoilt rotten. Scholastic achievements were scoffed at, and Cowell’s reward for achieving two O-levels ‘at the lowest grade’ was a red TR6 sports car, worth £7,000.

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Proud to have been ‘outspoken, obnoxious, cheeky and bored easily,’ Cowell’s personality was in place at the age of five, though he didn’t leave home until he was twenty-six. Briefly a supermarket management trainee, he then became a tea boy at a music and record company. He saw at once that the way to get ahead in the music business was to pretend to be camp, so he began ‘wearing a V-neck white T-shirt exposing his hairy chest’. He pulled his trousers up to his armpits and called everybody darling.

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His fortune wasn’t made instantly, however. Nor were his instincts spot-on. He let Kylie Minogue, fresh from Australia, sit in reception for a week, ‘ignored by everyone’. He turned down Take That. ‘I don’t like the lead singer,’ Cowell said. ‘He’s too fat.’ Poor Gary Barlow. He told Britney Spears, ‘You’re mad. No one can be successful with a name like that.’ He got tremendously excited by ‘a fabulously sexy Brazilian girl called Karen’ who was later exposed as having mimed along ‘to words sung by a Spanish vocalist’. That’s scoffing at scholastic achievements for you. Genuine Brazilians speak Portuguese. © UCLES 2014

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5 It was when he went before the cameras in person that Cowell really impinged on the national consciousness. I personally can’t tell my X Idol from my Got Talent : Cowell’s innovation, back in 2001, was to realise that though the pretence was ‘we’re looking for contestants with star quality whom we can turn into stars,’ his programmes were in fact going to be soap operas. Viewers were to accompany the poor saps following a dream who’d be mocked and patronised by the judges. Cowell himself was instantly memorable as television’s Mr Nasty, doling out the humiliation and barbed put-downs, such as ‘I’m afraid to say that really hurt my ears’ or ‘That used to be my favourite song. Not any more.’ He was equally as acerbic1 about his fellow panellists. Though considered ‘reality’ television, because it utilised real (unpaid) people rather than trained members of Equity,2 Cowell’s shows were as carefully edited and shaped as any film by Francis Ford Coppola. ‘I want a more ruthless feel,’ Cowell told his producers, ‘as if someone’s got to win. I want the losers to feel gutted.’ There is a strong element of exploitation here. It’s not about music or dancing, what Cowell is doing, but about power. We could be in the Roman arena, with Cowell the emperor giving the thumbs up or the thumbs down. His approval or disapproval is like a matter of life or death. But not even the victors last long: the winners are in the limelight only briefly and are soon consigned to cruise ships or switching the Christmas lights on in remote provincial towns. The promised millions don’t pour in, either, as all the considerable expenses are deducted from fees. Cowell, meantime, keeps tearing down and rebuilding his homes, tasteless palaces with shiny granite work surfaces and underfloor heating, suede walls and marble chairs. ‘Pull it down!’ he said of a new staircase. ‘I want a circular one.’ The immaculate lawns were similarly ripped up and the garden removed because ‘I can’t stand flowers.’ Crystal chandeliers went on a skip.

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The following text is taken from an article which describes the writer’s experience of returning to her home country of Liberia, West Africa. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to convey the writer’s thoughts and feelings. [15] (b) Basing your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract, continue the account (between 120–150 words). You do not need to bring the account to a close. [10]

Every day of those two weeks in Ghana, my soul ached to be home in Liberia. The ocean behind my room at the Afia Beach Hotel in Accra teased me with its flapping and rolling all day and night. But, this was not yet home, I told myself. I wanted to see Liberia again, where not only the ocean waves had survived a bloody war, where the sunshine also reigned, a home of lost ghosts and falling rockets, of runaways like us who had already been forgotten by the stay-at-home survivors, a home of lost youths, wandering the streets after their survival of one of the world’s bloodiest wars, a home of tears and unimaginable stories of cruelty.

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I wanted to hug my father again, to see him in his old age, his gray hair that had defied death and time, to see my brothers again after the lost years of their youth, the war having sapped opportunities away from them. They were the younger ones, the ones that had not yet died in all of the after-war diseases and calamities. I wanted to cry and laugh with them, survivors who still needed answers.

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Today, I was on a Kenyan airliner. The plane was filled with others who had been away too long; they’d also been forgotten. Sitting next to me was a young woman looking younger than a teenager. Her light brown skin sparkled with beauty. She seemed a ‘been to’,1 with a soft face made up to the letter, her smile, prepared. On her fingers were gold and diamond rings. Bracelets and fine linens draped around her arms as if she were some queen from a past world. She had ordered a huge perfume case from the airline’s Duty Free catalogue, so the stewardess came looking for her. She pushed her hands from under the hajib 2 to receive the package from the beautiful Kenyan stewardess. She quickly opened the package to show it off to me. Pride took over her features as she examined the perfume, smiling at me. We were not yet introduced.

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She was only twenty-two, I would learn; and her English, simple and rough, very much in contrast to her appearance. She had not gone to school all these years, I thought to myself, yet, she looked schooled and well-kept. She quickly excused her attire: she was flying in from a far away country in the Middle East. ‘I’m a real Liberian girl,’ she smiled. She was coming in from Saudi Arabia where she had stationed herself comfortably with an Italian man. Her conversation was not brief. She pulled her hands out of her chiffon-laced hajib and other wraps every few minutes to speak with her hands even though I could understand Liberian English perfectly. She lived an arrangement, she said softly. The man was old, much older, but he took good care of her and her family. He was old enough to be her grandfather, she smiled. But that was okay. There was room, she said, for him to do what he wanted and room for her too, to move around in their arrangement. Here she was, she told me, flying back and forth whenever she wanted. She’d been everywhere, she said, everywhere in the Middle East and Africa. She was on her way to see her mother in Liberia, to give them gifts, to take care of those who had survived the years. With his money lavished on her, she could come twice a month if she wanted. She smiled, looking into my eyes as if for approval. © UCLES 2014

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7 I turned away to the window. I was in the window seat. I love window seats. Because of invitations to read and present my poetry, I am a frequent flyer around the US, and now, though less frequently, outside the US. I had taken to window seats over the last few years. They are my solace when I end up next to an annoying passenger — or a sweet little Liberian girl who had chosen the soft road through the rocky desert the war had set her on. I wanted to jump through that window today. I was angry — not at the girl, her mother, or her man. I was angry at the world, at the war, and at those who had brought this sort of calamity upon us. I was angry that such a beautiful, soft-skinned girl looking like my own daughter had given herself away to an old man because of the times, had sold herself into slavery.

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I kept looking through the window. I could not look at her now, I told myself. I turned away from the window and took her in my arms. She could have been my daughter, I thought. She held on tightly to me, tears rolling down her cheeks as I too, wept. 1‘been 2hajib:

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following piece of travel writing describes a journey during the rainy season in India. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to convey the writer’s experience of the weather and his journey. [15] (b) The writer produces another piece of travel writing about another journey he experiences in severe weather in a different part of the world. Write a section of this piece of travel writing (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

The captain of the Airbus, speaking at 31,000 feet in a cloudless morning sky, announced arrival in fourteen minutes. A flanking turn to join the inbound traffic revealed that the city was enclosed in a massive slate-coloured marquee of rain. From up here its roof had a smooth, well-worked appearance – though, sinking closer, I saw that it was actually a sea of rolling waves, billows and breakers. They threw up spouts of black foam which kept getting vaporized by hurricane-force winds. When the Airbus dropped in it bounced out again. Our ride to the ground was a wild, plunging one, Bombay finally glimpsed through steaming windows as a dim, misty abstraction offering hints of a city but little hard evidence. Silver roads wound through dark hills enveloped in even darker clouds, their bases lapped by huge interlocking puddles. The distant downtown skyscrapers were vague and like pillars of smoke. We landed, taxied up to the stand and parked beside another Airbus preparing for push-back. Rain sheeted off its wings as men in dripping waterproof capes closed the cargo doors. The domestic arrivals hall stood seventy yards away with a carwash arrangement of gushing waterspouts ranged across its entrance. Passing through meant immersion and, inside, blood-curdling curses and blasphemies were being uttered by the soaking, gasping passengers. The taxi I hailed outside had come through so many monsoons there was a tide mark of corrosion running around the bottom of the doors. Like a Plimsoll line1, it seemed to indicate the depth of the water over which the driver was not licensed to operate. Braving the rain he sprang out, seized my bag, ushered me in, threw the bag in after me, then rushed round to board himself. These courtesies were not so surprising as the cab’s interior. It had been transformed into a tiny world of order and tranquillity. A gaudy statuette stood on the dashboard with postcards of snowy Himalayan landscapes glued beneath, each illuminated by a coloured Christmas-tree light. Garlands of jasmines filled the car with fragrance. Behind my seat more lights flanked a miniature gilded cage containing a toy nightingale. There was thick crimson carpeting on the floor and, pasted to the rear of the driver’s seat, pictures of girls, temples, tigers, cumulus clouds in a dark monsoon sky. A sign fixed to the dashboard said ‘Bless Us!’, another, ‘This vehicle was purchased with funds from the Union Bank.’ The driver, young, intense, took a small bottle from his glove box and beckoned me forward. He placed a dab of sandalwood perfume on my wrists and then plunged his hands into the jumble of wires that hung from the dashboard. These, touched together in sequence, got the engine going. The noise it made was unusual, like © UCLES 2014

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3 steam whistles accompanied by deep percussive bangs. He activated the single wiper, which fitfully stirred the torrent coursing down the windscreen, then turned and smiled at me. 40

‘Are you comfortable?’ ‘Yes, thank you.’ Cautiously he joined the traffic hurtling into town, the vehicles all semi-obscured by spray and travelling like speed boats. Racing to beat the lights we hit our first billabong of standing water. It thundered into the wheel wells and gushed up past the windows, causing the car to slew wildly; a lorry overtaking on the wrong side missed us by the width of a raindrop. Horns blared. The driver, his thin shoulders hunched, jaw muscles working, gripped the wheel like the reins of a runaway horse.

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Plumed wakes warned there was more ahead. ‘Puddle,’ muttered the driver, slowing. Puddle? It was a small inland sea, its further coast barely visible to the naked eye, but our crossing was accomplished without difficulty since this one had a benign puddle god. The driver’s confidence grew. We entered the next at a fair speed but, midway over, there was a sudden lurch and a muffled, shocking thud; we spun slowly, sheeting water, to face the way we had come. The car lay at an odd angle and all the Christmas-tree lights had gone out. For a few seconds we sat in stunned silence and then the driver threw open the door. What he saw caused him to clutch his head in anguish. The front offside wheel had come off. It still occupied the wheel well, but was no longer attached to the axle. We stared at it while the water enclosed us. We stood in it up to our ankles; it fell on us out of the sky and came at us laterally as surf from passing vehicles. I had never felt so wet or exposed. And we were marooned amid speeding traffic in conditions of minimum visibility. It was the driver who acted. Moaning softly, half-blinded by rain, he heaved my bag out and ran with it to the side of the road before dodging back and locking his doors. Then he went sprinting off and, within seconds, was lost in the downpour.

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The following text is taken from an online review of The X Factor, a show in which contestants compete in a talent competition to become stars in the music world. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to portray the show.

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(b) The writer produces an online review of another popular television programme or film. Write a section of this review (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

There’s a lot about The X Factor that feels familiar. It’s not just that the same channel tried and failed with The X Factor five years ago, or that this is now hosted by the same chump who fronted the massive flop that was Popstars Live, no, it’s mainly the fact that Got Talent only wrapped up its season two months ago and you’d be forgiven for mistaking these two entertainment behemoths1 for being the exact same programme.

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As with Got Talent there’s a judge sitting on the end being snarky, there’s a little mousy brunette next to him, this time, and you’ve even got a pop star who used to be in a boy band. X Factor is on the same network as Talent, it’s made by the same people as Talent, it’s got a set that looks plucked straight out of Talent, the auditions are happening in front of a live audience just like on Talent, you’ve got old people embarrassing themselves like on Talent and the judging panel even has a big X on the front of it like Talent does. The only real difference seems to be a lack of jugglers.

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The X Factor kicked off Monday night with the first of a week’s worth of audition episodes. It would be nice if we as a nation of television viewers could write a joint letter to reality shows in an effort to finally rid the world of ‘the audition round’:

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Dear Reality Shows, we understand that you have auditions. We realise there will be heart warming tales and embarrassing shockers, we accept that, we know how it works, and we’ve been watching them for the last decade. We know that when you stop to hear a person’s sob story that they’ll undoubtedly turn out to be really talented, just as we know that when you linger a little long with somebody who seems a little too full of themselves that you’ll soon cut them down to size with their lousy audition. We’ve been here before. Can we all agree that there were shocking moments and touching moments and just move on? Please. Of course, that’s not going to happen this year as The X Factor trotted out all the old tricks. There were the awkward singers who were met with plenty of carefully selected reaction shots of audience members gaping in confusion. There were people with possible psychological issues who were predictably terrible. They even trotted out the old Idol trick of choosing an artist, this time Lady GaGa, and pointing out how she was being butchered by so many contestants. Then they show three or four singers doing a bad rendition of Lady GaGa before the host narrates something like “will such-and-such be able to break the trend!” and surprise surprise such-andsuch does! The X Factor is over-produced to within an inch of its life. The producers can’t let any moment sit still without pounding a poorly chosen pop-song to blare over the soundtrack to remind us how we should be feeling. Oh look, there’s some cute boys on stage, let’s play Justin Bieber. Oh look, that girl’s had a tough life, let’s play Miley Cyrus – The Climb. Oh this guy just sang Queen, let’s play We Are The Champions. The X Factor producers just can’t help themselves; it’s as if they’re afraid of silence or organic moments. © UCLES 2014

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5 There was a moment during the first episode where a young gentleman confessed that he’d moved because he was afraid his dad would disown him: they just had to pound hard on the weepy soundtrack and amp the violins up to eleven just to remind everybody at home they should be crying. A real moment destroyed by a show terrified that their audience is unaware of how emotions work.

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There’s a lot to hate about The X Factor, and more than what I’ve listed above. It’s overblown, it features more hyperbole2 than a thousand million ego-maniacal volcano gods, it has far too many ads, it’s over-edited and it’s ridiculously selfindulgent. There’s the faintest tiniest spark that The X Factor could be big, dumb fun, but at the moment the problem is that The X Factor is a massive poser of a show. It’s not cool but it pretends to be, it’s not epic but it makes noise as if it is. At one point during the show one judge tells a contestant that you’ve got to ‘fake it till you make it’, and that seems to be what The X Factor is doing at this point. The X Factor is NOT a massive television phenomenon, but it hopes that if it yells loud enough and uses font big enough that people will be tricked into believing it is a phenomenon.

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The following text describes how the writer and his brother travel to Odessa, in the Ukraine. The writer regards this visit as the final chapter of his search for some of his ancestors: wealthy grain merchants in Odessa, before members of the family migrated to different places around the world. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to convey the writer’s thoughts and feelings. [15] (b) Later, in his diary, the writer’s brother describes the thoughts and feelings he and his brother had about their visit to Odessa. Write a section of the diary entry (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

It is November and I need to go to Odessa. It is nearly two years since I began this journey and I’ve been everywhere else but the city where the Ephrussi family started. I want to see the Black Sea and imagine the grain warehouses on the edge of the seaport. And perhaps, if I stand in the house where Charles and my greatgrandfather Viktor were born, I will understand. I am not sure what I will understand. Why they left? What it means to leave? I think I’m looking for a beginning. I meet Thomas, my youngest brother, and the tallest, who has travelled from Moldova by taxi. It is a journey that has taken him five hours. Thomas, who has been researching the history of the Ephrussi of Odessa for many years and speaks Russian, is blasé1 about borders. He has been held up and laughs that it’s always a problem whether to bribe or not. I worry about visas: he doesn’t. We haven’t been on a trip together for twenty-five years, since we were students and went off around the Greek islands. Andrei, the Moldovan taxi driver, sets off. We bump along the outskirts of ravaged apartment blocks and decaying factories, overtaken by huge black 4x4s with tinted windows and by old Fiats, until we meet the wide avenues of old Odessa. No one told me, I tell Thomas petulantly, that it was so beautiful, that there were catalpa trees alongside the pavements, that there were courtyards glimpsed through open doors, shallow oak steps, that there were balconies. Some of Odessa is being restored, plasterwork repaired and stucco painted, while other buildings sink in squalor with looping cables, gates off their hinges and missing capitals to the pillars. It is early November and so mild that we walk down the street in our shirt-sleeves. We pass some mansions and three buildings down is the Ephrussi bank with the family house next door. This is where Jules and Ignace and Charles were born. It is where Viktor was born. We go round the back.

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It is a mess. The stucco is coming off in great gouts, the balconies are shedding, there is a bit of slippage amongst the putti.2 When I come up close I see it has been refaced too, replastered, and those are certainly not original windows. But right at the top is a single balcony in which the double E of the family hangs on. I hesitate. Thomas, who is good at this, fearless, walks through the broken gates under the arch into the yard behind the Ephrussi house. Here are the stable blocks with their floors of dark stone. It is ballast, he says over his shoulder, lava from Sicily brought in on the grain ships. Grain out. Lava back. A dozen men, suddenly silent, drinking tea, a Citroen 2CV up on blocks. There is a chained Alsatian barking. The yard is full of dust. It has three skips full of timber and plaster and broken stone. He finds the foreman in a shiny leather jacket. Yes, you can go in – you’re lucky, it is just being renovated, new everything, beautifully done, a real success, on schedule, a quality job. We have just put laboratories into the basem*nt, fire doors and a sprinkler system. It is the offices next. We have to get © UCLES 2014

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7 rid of all of the old house, it was shot, hopeless. You should have seen it a month ago! I should have. I am too late. What can I touch here in this stripped-out hulk? It has no ceilings, only steel girders and electric cabling. It has no floors, only concrete screed.3 The walls have just been plastered, the windows have been reglazed. Some ironwork is up for partitions. They have taken out all the doors, except for one in oak, destined for the skips tomorrow. The only thing left is the volume, the scale of these rooms, sixteen feet high.

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There is nothing here. Thomas and the shiny man are racing ahead, talking Russian. ‘This house was the headquarters of the steamship company since the Revolution. Before that? God knows! Now? The headquarters of the Marine Hygiene Inspection Office. That’s why we’ve put in the laboratories.’ They are fast. I have to keep moving. We are almost out the door and into the dusty yard when I double back. I am wrong. I am back up the staircase and I put my hand on the cast-iron balustrade, each column topped with a blackened ear of wheat of the Ephrussi, the wheat from the granary of the black soil of the Ukraine that made them rich. And while my brother calls up, I go and stand next to a window and look out across the Promenade through the double avenue of chestnut trees, the dusty paths and the benches to the Black Sea.

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The Ephrussi boys are still here. 1blasé:

unconcerned plaster carvings 3screed : thin cement floor covering 2putti :

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The following text is taken from a newspaper article. In it, the writer describes how a mother and father take a very keen interest in their son’s application to university. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to present the mother and father’s behaviour. [15] (b) Later, in another newspaper article, the same writer describes how the couple shows further enthusiasm about another important moment in their son’s life. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of the article. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the writing in the original extract. [10]

At the beginning of the new year, my wife has recommenced her haunting of various online student forums, trying to gain insight into university places on behalf of our eldest son. It is not a form of torture in which the boy has shown much interest. I find my wife in her office, scrolling through one thread after another. 5

“Any news?” I say. “People are beginning to hear,” she says. “Really?” I say. “Yes, but for other subjects,” she says. “Don’t try and jump on the bandwagon now.” “I won’t,” I say. “I think it’s weird that you’re pretending to be your own son.” “I’m not pretending to be him. I have my own persona.”

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The next day she is still there. She doesn’t look up from the screen when I come in. “Anything?” I ask. “A couple of rejections,” she says. “Nothing major.” “So what are you doing now?” I ask. She turns to glare at me. “These people,” she says, “are my friends.”

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Over the course of the next few days, my wife’s obsessive monitoring begins to affect me. I have trouble concentrating. At odd moments, my guts twist for no reason, until I remember the reason. On the morning of the day the letters are meant to arrive, my wife gets up at 5.45am to check her computer. Fifteen minutes later, she throws herself on the bed.

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“What’s happening?” I ask. “Nothing is happening!” she hisses. “It’s six o’clock in the morning! I’m hysterical.” Before he leaves for school, my wife secures the eldest one’s permission to monitor his emails all day, even though, according to the latest information, we are not expecting an email. By 10am we are both in a state of advanced panic. © UCLES 2015

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3 “Oh my God!” I hear my wife shriek. I find her at her computer. “People are getting offers,” she says. “Apparently you can tell from the weight of the envelope.” “You need to breathe,” I say. “What time does the post actually come?” she says. For the first time in many months, my wife looks at me as if I might be in possession of useful information; I have been working from home for fifteen years.

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“I think it varies.” At 12.30pm the letter box snaps. We both race to the front door in time to fight over a pizza delivery leaflet. As we retreat back up the stairs panting, my wife turns to me. “We should probably start preparing for both outcomes,” she says. “What if it’s bad news?” I spend twenty minutes looking out of the window in the direction I’ve always assumed the postman originates from. As far up as I can see, the street is deserted. Finally, I go to my office to compose an overdue email. When I hit send, I find the screen has frozen. I am holding down several keys at once in an attempt to remedy the problem when the post hits the mat. I bolt from the room, but I can already hear my wife’s heels striking the hall tiles hard; she must have jumped from the landing. By the time I’ve turned the corner between flights, I can hear an envelope being rent in strips. And then, from directly below me, my wife lets out a blood-curdling scream.

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By the time I reach the kitchen, my wife’s blood-curdling screams have subsided. She is still scrutinising the letter from the university that hit the mat not twenty seconds before. The envelope, addressed to the oldest one, lies in shreds at her feet. “He got in?” I say.

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“Of course he got in,” she says. “Didn’t you hear me screaming?” We stand side by side reading the letter in silence. “It’s actually quite boring,” I say, “once you get past the first two lines.” “Oh my God,” my wife gasps. “It’s like someone is telling me I’m pretty!” With her free hand she is texting the oldest one over and over. We are struggling to make sense of page two when her phone finally pings. It’s a text from the boy.

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“I’m in a lesson,” it says. “GET OUT OF THE LESSON,” my wife writes. Much later, and when the boy has gone out with friends, I find my wife at the kitchen table with the letter, her phone and an open address book.

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“What are you doing?” I ask. “I’m just ringing people to tell them about my brilliant achievement,” she says.

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The following text is taken from an online magazine. In it, the writer, Anna, describes her experience of buying a car. (a) Comment on the ways in which the writer uses language and style to portray her experience of obtaining the car and her relationship with it afterwards. [15] (b) Later, Andrei publishes a biography about Anna. In one chapter, he recalls his memories of her and the car. Write a section of the chapter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10]

Our first car was a beige Zaporozhets made in Russia. I was eligible for a model with manual controls because I had a problem with my leg. Getting the car was rather simple: tests on a treadmill, proof that my leg acted weirdly, a certificate proving that I had good eyesight and was mentally stable, and, above all, coming to terms with the woman in charge. To this person, who dealt out these cheap monstrosities to humiliated invalids, I fell into none of the standard categories. She had never approved a young woman with a husband, but without a bribe. And so she started yelling at the top of her lungs. There was ‘no way, no reason, no right’ for people like me. I’ve had extensive experience dealing with such women, both in everyday life and at work and outside. So I humbly asked her for a sheet of paper and, right there at her desk, I addressed my complaint to her superiors about her incompetence and performance at this cushy job. Realizing I knew how to act in such situations, the woman looked embarrassed, her eyes sparkled, and then she fawned on me. Finally, she started to cry and complained about a woman’s hard lot, blaming fatigue for her inability to think straight … after which she filled out papers with the speed of a jet plane. The invalids who witnessed all this looked sideways at me, as if I were a knight who had chopped off the three heads of a dragon. The victory was intoxicating. And so, in that state, my husband, our friend the journalist Andrei Fadin and I rushed off to get the car. Neither my husband nor I could drive, so Andrei generously took us under his wing.

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‘You’ll learn to drive, get around in Moscow, bash the car here and there, then buy a better one,’ explained Andrei. ‘I started with a Zaporozhets too.’ When we entered the extremely icy forecourt crowded with new Zaporozhetses, we were rather taken aback. Every single car was missing parts. The boss of the icy garage reluctantly informed us that that’s how they came, though the address of the missing parts was written on his face. ‘OK, man, it’ll get you as far as home and then you can take it in for service and they’ll install what’s missing,’ the boss of the lot advised. ‘The car is a winner! It’s better than a tank for fishing. Of course, it’s your choice. But then again, there won’t be any other cars until these go. Meanwhile, some other parts will be stripped – it can’t be helped.’ ‘Fine, I’ll drive,’ said Andrei to the guy. ‘If I hit something, you’ll need a lawyer!’ ‘Then don’t hit anything,’ winked the guy.

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5 Since the forecourt was a virtual ice rink, there was no point asking how invalids could exit, when first you had to figure out how they could enter to reach a car.

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‘To tell you the truth, your car isn’t missing much. Compared to the rest here, you’ve got a real Mercedes. And be happy you’ve got wheels from old stock,’ said the boss of the frozen forecourt as we were leaving. To say that a Zaporozhets is noisy is to say nothing: it howls like a wounded rhinoceros. To say that it jolts, is also to say nothing: a motorcycle, with a sidecar, going down a country road is a luxury liner in comparison. To say that sitting in it is uncomfortable is to say nothing at all. We arrived without hitting anything … But all my efforts to tame this iron friend of invalids were unsuccessful.

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‘Andrei,’ I complained after each driving lesson, ‘this isn’t working. The car and I have no feel for each other. Maybe I’m not enough of an invalid to master this thing.’ ‘Evidently, me neither,’ he would shrug. When my attempts at intimacy with the car resulted only in our mutual torture, I realized that we simply were biologically incompatible. Moreover, this biological incompatibility spread to all the members of my family. Neither my husband nor either of my sons displayed any interest in this marvel of technology. All family discussions boiled down to: Let’s give it away to someone!!! But the Zaporozhets would not give in. Not we, nor the car, nor potential owners were lucky – something would always stand in the way. We tried everything: to set a low price, to give it away, to forget about it, to facilitate its theft … Nothing worked; it stood peacefully for about five years in front of our house, tenderly referred to as our real estate. Years passed; the car lived on its own, not belonging to anyone except the street cats sitting on it.

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The following text is taken from a magazine article. It describes a well-travelled writer’s thoughts and feelings about the place of his birth. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to create a sense of mood and place. [15] (b) The writer later lives for some years in another place in your own country – and, after an absence, visits it again. He writes an article about the changes that he sees. Write a section of the article (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10]

I leave the dance floor and step outside. A tent covers the garden, and a log fire burns in the night. I walk away, around my uncle’s house, a house built when we were teenagers, and into the great lawn that curves around what was my grandfather’s house. My body steams in the cold air. We played here as children, we cousins. There were more than enough of us at Friday family lunches for any sport that came to mind. It is February, not long after the kite-fighting festival of Basant. Lahore’s winter fogs have given way to the clear nights of spring, but there is still a chill in the air. I sit down on a bench, and shut my eyes. This is the passage of time. I am a grown man now, 31, and I am in a place that will always be sacred to me as the place of my childhood. I feel an allegiance to this house, this family, this city, this country. It makes my eyes burn. I do not want to leave. But I know I am a wanderer, and I have no more choice but to drift than does a dandelion seed in the wind. It is my nature. It is in my soul, in my eyes. Still, Lahore touches me. I am doing well in my career abroad, and I am able to visit often. But there is something about Lahore, something that makes me want to be part of this city’s story. Even though I have moved away, this is where I evolved, where my basic notions of love and friendship were formed. A snow leopard can be taken to zoos in other places; it can perhaps even be well fed and content, but it will always wear a coat designed for the Himalayas. I see Lahore when I look in the mirror, and I feel the strength of my attachment at this moment, as my cousin prepares to marry. My sister and I had arrived on a flight from London that morning. She busied herself with the many errands of the wedding: flower arrangements, tent and lighting designs, food preparations. I, typically and lazily, claimed exhaustion and jet lag as an excuse to go straight to bed. When I woke it was evening. I climbed up onto the roof of my parents’ house to watch the sun set and to look out upon my city. Lahore had changed and was changing. From this rooftop, where I spent many hours struggling to get kites aloft, one used to see only trees and the rooftops of other houses. Now bald patches had emerged where trees had died, and tall office buildings had risen up not far away, almost uniformly hideous in their architecture but robust and healthy signs of life, of growth. I watched them warily and wondered what my house would one day become. A shop perhaps. Or maybe a small museum. As I dash from one friend’s house to the next, avoiding wedding chores while catching up with people I haven’t seen in a long time, I can’t help thinking of Lahore as the girl I first fell in love with. I have fallen in love with other cities since: with New York, the girl I will always lust for but who left me exhausted; and with London, the © UCLES 2015

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7 girl who bored me at first but whose company I have come to savour. But my heart will always have a special place for my first love, for Lahore, the love of my childhood and teens and early 20s.

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She has hardened, become more cynical, angrier. She has lost some of her looks. She is less complacent than she was then, less sure of her enduring centrality in her universe. But Lahore is still a charmer, and she is more urbane and cosmopolitan than she was in the days when the opening of a new ice-cream parlour was enough to get her excited for months. Lahore is speckled with Internet cafés, with billboards offering broadband connections, with advertisem*nts for health clubs featuring personal trainers.

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No, Lahore is no longer the same girl she was when we parted ways. And I am no longer the same boy. But even after all these years, even with the scars and frown lines she has acquired, she still makes my heart race, and I can’t help wondering what would have happened if we hadn’t broken up, what would have happened if I had stayed. This is the magic of Lahore. Maybe because of the heat or the big families or the social restrictions or the relative lack of money, Lahore is a place where bands of friends tend to form and hold together. I would not trade this evening in my longdisused study for a party in the coolest nightclub. There is far more pleasure and sustenance to be had here, and I gorge myself on it tonight.

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3. 1

The following is one of a series of magazine articles in which the writer describes his unusual relatives. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to present the grandfather and his absent-minded approach to life. [15] (b) The writer’s aunt, Ted’s daughter, shows a different type of strange behaviour. The writer describes her in another magazine article in the series. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this article. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the writing in the original extract. [10] My late paternal grandad Ted was an almost constantly grinning man, with a moustache, glasses – and a scar running across the entirely bald dome of his head. Even from when I was very small, I’d known that he’d been injured in World War Two, but it was only later that I asked about the scar’s origin. “Oh, no,” my dad told me, “he didn’t get it while fighting. He didn’t do any fighting. He was mending a plane and forgot to move out of the way when the propeller started going, and it clonked him.” Nobody can remember the exact moment my grandad’s scatterbrain gene kicked in, but a poll of those who knew him puts it at around the age of 36: the age I am now, and still a good year or two before Ted set fire to a stranger’s coat by putting his stilllit pipe in his pocket during a coach trip.

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In my grandma, Joyce, he had found a complementary opposite: stern and fearful, a woman who once called the police on her own son for messing about on a train track close to their house. Joyce’s role was to remind Ted not to put his house keys in the fridge, or leave loaves of bread on the roof of the car on long journeys and, during visits to heavily mirrored buildings, stop him from spending too much time apologising profusely to other moustachioed men with scarred bald heads for blocking their path. Ted’s – arguably more significant – role was to shake Joyce out of her naturally pessimistic state with a succession of dancing classes, neighbourhood bonfires, fancy dress balls, caravan holidays and walking expeditions. When Ted went through a red light, which he often did, it was always out of absentmindedness, not haste. One winter, after a visit to our house, a passing team of six sinewy cyclists helped push his car out of the snow and back on to the road. This was on one of the rare occasions when he hadn’t parked the car in the dead centre of the country lane we lived on, or left a small paraffin stove burning inside the footwell to “keep it defrosted”. Even with the weather conditions in mind, the task took an unusual amount of grunting. It was only later that it dawned on Ted that he’d forgotten to take the handbrake off. My mother remembers that on her first visit to my grandparents’ house, Ted was wearing a paper party hat. As it wasn’t Christmas or anybody’s birthday, this confused her, until she found out that making Ted wear the hat was my grandma’s scheme to help him remember not to leave the water heater on.

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3 My own first-hand encounter with my grandad’s legendary doziness came when he caddied for me in a junior golf tournament and, arriving on the second tee and reaching for my club, I found the flag from the first green in my bag. This occurred during the same year that he and Joyce sent a Christmas card to my parents – whose names are Mick and Jo – reading, “To Joyce and Ted. Happy Christmas! Love from Joyce and Ted.” Recently, particularly as the hair on my head has become slightly thinner and the hair on my face thicker, I’ve started to see a hint of Ted in the mirror. This effect will no doubt become more extreme when I finally start wearing my glasses as often as I should, and gets me thinking about my genetic destiny, especially on the days when I put the coffee beans straight into the mug or a bottle of unused body wash directly into my recycling bin. Not long before he died, Ted was taken on a visit to a large country house by my parents. “Ah. If I could do it all over again, and got luckier,” he sighed. “I could have been the gardener here.” Ted worked hard all his life, with heavy machinery, in a factory that made women’s stockings, but he never got ideas above his station, which perhaps meant his doziness was easier to manage. I, on the other hand, have had many ideas above my station. But I should probably start thinking about winding those up now, for safety’s sake: spend more time pottering about in the garden, perhaps keep the car on the road for a few more years, but limit it to small trips, hardware firms and dinner dances. Occasionally, I’ll need to go shopping for slippers, and I might fall foul of the odd full-length mirror in the process, but I’ll cope. It won’t be a bad life, and if I live it a quarter as nobly as Ted did, I’ll have no complaints.

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The following text is an extract from a letter to the boss of an airline company. In it, the writer complains about his experience as a customer on a recent flight. The writer has included five photographs in his letter to Mr Richard Branson, which are not included here. (a) Comment on the ways in which the writer uses language and style to voice his concerns. [15] (b) On a return flight the writer has further problems, not relating to food, this time. He writes again to Mr Branson. Write a section of the letter (between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10] Dear Richard, REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December I love your brand, I really do – which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit. Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at the hands of your airline.

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Look at this Richard. Just look at it: [see photograph 1]. I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, which one is the starter, which one is the dessert? You don’t get to a position like yours, Richard, with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a dessert with a tomato would they? I know it looks like a baaji1 but it’s in custard, Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well, you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn’t custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. Its only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palate that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the dessert after all. Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly, but neatly, by my parents and if they knew I had started dessert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So let’s peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.

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I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy, Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat there with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that stereo you picked out of the catalogue and wrote to Santa about. Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s like it is your hamster, Richard. It’s like it is your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see photograph 2]. © UCLES 2015

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5 Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard, Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month.

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I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to its baffling presentation: [see photograph 3]. It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs.

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I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax, but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. Once cleared, I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on: [see photograph 4]. Is that Ray Liotta2? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen. My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations: [see photograph 5]. Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff. Richard, what is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the baaji custard and the mustard sauce.

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So that was that, Richard. I didn’t eat a thing. My only question is: how can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like. It must be like something out of a nature documentary. As I said at the start I love your airline, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to its knees and begging for sustenance.

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Yours sincerely, Tarun Achari 1baaji :

an Indian vegetable dish a Hollywood film star

2Ray Liotta:

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The following text is taken from a travel magazine. It describes the writer’s experience of being lost in a hostile landscape. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to create a sense of mood and place. [15] (b) Later, the writer publishes another account of being stranded in a different type of harsh environment. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this account. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original extract. [10] The sun is still overhead. For brief moments, refracted through the heat waves on the right, I see villages, moving trucks, or a sweep of marsh. If I didn’t have a compass, I might be tempted to walk straight into the mirage.

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I crouch down and look at the driver. He is ten metres away, sitting in front of his truck, staring right back at me. “Thank you, brother,” I say, putting the lid down.

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The following text is taken from an autobiography. In it, the writer describes how her mother showed great enthusiasm for a new hobby. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to present the mother’s character and her relationship with the instructor, Mr Vaas. [15] (b) Later, in another chapter of her autobiography, the writer describes how her mother took up another activity with the assistance of a different instructor. Write a section (between 120–150 words) of this chapter. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the writing in the original extract. [10] So, encouraged by Mum’s almost aggressive enthusiasm, Mr Vaas parked his elderly and very basic Cessna1 on the airstrip by the Mkushi Country Club (whose tennis courts had ruptured little trees and which housed bats in the bar) and declared himself open for business as a flight instructor.

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Mum’s eyes misted, but she nodded. “Roger,” she said. She knew then, she said afterward, that she’d never fly alone—as she had dreamed.

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The following text is taken from a biography of the novelist Jean Rhys. Rhys returns to her home island in the West Indies and visits the nuns at the convent where she went to school. (a) Comment on the ways in which the writer uses language and style to portray the character and attitudes of Jean Rhys. [15] (b) Continue the extract (between 120–150 words). You do not have to bring your writing to a conclusion. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the writing in the original extract. [10] Jean Rhys boarded a French ship called the Cuba at Southampton dock. The ship was bound for Dominica, her childhood home, which she had left twenty-nine years previously. Going home was a matter of urgency: she had to go home to keep writing. She had moved through scenes of Parisian and London life like a sponge, soaking up the atmosphere and detail, yet so absorbed in her own travails1 that she was unable to connect with external reality. She had met famous people and been the lover of two English gentlemen, one a famous novelist. She had been disappointed and cast aside. She had been cut adrift from her roots, and had found no haven. Dominica was calling her home.

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But the journey was hindered by the sea: the Sargasso Sea, where the Cuba seemed to flounder for long, dreary days in a mess of weed and wreckage. The sea itself was blocking her way. Close proximity to other people wiped her out, erased her. It is so hard to get what you want in this life. Everything and everyone conspires to stop you. This was how it seemed to Jean. She could not voice her feelings, and her life, as she told it to others, seemed unreal. She often found that when she told people her story, they looked at her with disbelief in their eyes. So she stopped telling them. Instead, she told it to herself in her novels. That way, she at least could believe it. As a writer, this strategy worked well for her; as a woman, it did not.

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Jean put on different guises for different phases, becoming a different person depending on whom she was with; there was no continuity to her idea of herself. When surrounded by others, it was a battle to preserve even the most subtle sense of who she might be. Jean created her own world as protection from this one, with its infuriating chatterboxes, selfish drama queens, and arrogant upstarts. When she argued with her neighbours, as she would for the rest of her life, it was not merely a matter of winning or losing an argument, it was a struggle to prove that she existed. Towards the end of March they arrived in Roseau, Dominica, her birthplace. She had come home, she wrote; she wanted to see the Good Mother. But she was afraid Mother might have forgotten her.

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‘How could I forget you, Gwen?’ was Mother Mount Calvary’s reply, using Jean’s real name. She invited Jean to visit for tea. Going back is difficult because everything always changes. Mother Mount Calvary looked old and sombre though she smiled and kissed Jean affectionately. She had sad news for Jean. Mother Sacred Heart, another beloved nun, was dead. The convent was faced with closure. One consolation was a photograph in Mother’s office © UCLES 2015

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5 of Jean’s father. He had been a doctor to the convent, and a favourite son of the parish. Jean visited his grave in the nearby graveyard. She was grateful to be away from the anxious, ageing nun, who had gamely tried to conceal her worry about her future. But her anxiety betrayed itself, and Jean found it painful to countenance. Jean sat by her father’s grave with its Celtic cross, almost obscured by weeds and neglect, and wept for the past. Her father, apart from the nuns, had been forgotten. His good works, his kindness to the poor, were as though they had not happened. No one tended his grave. His life had been a waste of time. Nature had confirmed that, wiping out the traces of his endeavour with senseless fertility. Jean still loved her island. For her, it was the loveliest place that could be imagined. It was so conducive to sleep. The hot weather, the steady rainfall, the lushness, made sleep irresistible. She felt the usual delicious sinking sensation she always felt when tired.

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A friend of Jean’s dead mother offered her the use of a remote estate. The colours enlivened her. She had sea on one side and mountains on the other. She had a beach with white sand, a good pool in the river and a nice girl to look after her. Most important of all, there was no one to interrupt her writing or her recovery of her self. ‘The wonderful thing is to wake up and know that nobody can get at you – nobody,’ she wrote to a friend. 1travails :

© UCLES 2015

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troubles.

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6 3

The following text is taken from the journal of a British soldier. The extract describes his experience of dealing with captured German soldiers as they arrived at a prison camp in England in World War Two. One prisoner tries to offer him a gift. (a) Comment on the ways in which language and style are used to create a sense of character and mood. [15] (b) Later, the German prisoner who owns the pencil-holder writes in his journal. He describes his thoughts and feelings about the events of the day. Write a section of the journal (in English and between 120–150 words). Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10] The night they arrived was also the night of the gale, but there was nothing to suggest its approach when the blurred ranks of field grey German uniforms appeared at the entrance about five o’clock on a mild autumn afternoon. In the watery yellow light the only immediate difference between the straggling rows of men and the rows of kit that were stood alongside them was that the former could move of their own accord.

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They were herded through the barbed wire and divided and subdivided into groups and parties. All was orderly and quiet. One was conscious of white faces and enormous staring eyes which followed one’s every movement. Some were hardly able to stand or speak, either from exhaustion or because they were hollowed right out with fear. They fumbled and dropped things, or they just stood trembling and inert. Some came up smiling and smothered the table instantly with worthless rubbish, shaking out their inverted pockets to convince us of their innocence, eager to supply a short history of each article and to disclose the identities of photographs. Some smiled cynically, saluted smartly, and were deliberately slow and casual. Others, a few older ones, cried quietly the whole time, letting the tears cut white channels down their grimed cheeks. They brought their belongings like disgraced schoolboys showing their exercise books to the headmaster. Mostly, they were young. Some were just children. Others had many and various possessions. There was one who was short and fat with a bald head and thick glasses. He happened to be in my group and I had noticed him when he was still some way down the line because he was incessantly fidgeting and fussing and keeping a check on his things which he carried in two cases and two sacks. Everyone was amused at him because he was so like a flustered tourist who cannot find a porter. When his turn came he was sweating with anxiety and his hands trembled as he laid on the table one after another leather cases of shaving tackle, writing materials, books, fountain pens, a watch, a travelling ink bottle, and a long, silver pencil-holder. I felt his breath beating on the top of my head as I bent over and ran my hands quickly over his pockets. I picked up the silver pencil-holder. It was the sort that is made to hold a short length of wooden pencil, not the modern propelling type. It was beautifully wrought and embossed with vine leaves and laurel and engraved with initials, not his own.

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‘What a lovely pencil-holder,’ I said. His face lit up with pleasure. ‘You like it. Yes?’ I asked him his profession and he said he was an architect. I told him to put his things away while I filled up the forms. He packed everything away into the two cases and sacks and moved off quickly and left the pencil in the middle of the table. © UCLES 2015

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7 ‘You’ve forgotten something,’ I called and pointed to the pencil-holder. He stopped and looked confused and said nothing. I held it out to him. ‘Your pencil-holder,’ I said. He took it uncertainly, not knowing what to do with embarrassment.

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‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘it’s not allowed. Gifts are not allowed.’ ‘Not allowed – ah – verboten – verboten – entschuldigen.1’ And he went off bewildered, submissive, fat, middle-aged, unhappy. It took nearly two hours to get through. With so many people about it was the silence that was strangest. It was a positive silence like that of a cathedral, which made one want to lower one’s voice. When the last man had left, the air was rancid with the smell of dirt and sweat and exhaustion. A thick blanket of dust lay over everything – the soil of France. It was dusk and the wind had started. It began with a wild waving in the top branches of the elm trees beyond the compound. Doors banged suddenly and people walked as though they were climbing a steep gradient. Words were torn out of one’s mouth before they could be uttered. As night closed in, the wind bore down on the camp and fastened its million claws into every crevice. It tore screaming through the barbed wire and across the concrete and raced away howling into the dales. The two great marquees swayed and groaned like ships straining their moorings and searching for the rocks. The night was full of unidentifiable noises. Every inanimate thing found its own particular moan and note of protest until the darkness was crowded with furious torment. In the low, howling huts the English lay and the Germans lay sleeping for the first time in safety. 1verboten

© UCLES 2015

– entschuldigen: German for ‘forbidden – excuse me’.

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following text is by British writer Josie Dew, who is about to set off on a long cycle journey round New Zealand, after a journey by boat across the Pacific. She has arrived in the city of Auckland on Christmas Eve. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Later, Josie Dew decides to make another cycle journey in your own country. Describe the beginning of her journey (between 120 and 150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original. [10] Before long I was dumped at the port gate, where I set about hooking and strapping and bungeeing a bewildering heap of bags on to my bike. Although I was burdened with exactly the same amount of luggage as I’d had when cycling to my ship rendezvous point all those blue moons and numerous seas ago, it had somehow expanded tenfold. I believe this is a phenomenon known in physicist circles as The Law of Voluminous Mass of Weighty Density Gone Round the Bend Bonkers. Also known as BABE (Blinking Automated Bag Extension) for short. Either way, I found myself struggling to house my mountain of kit in anything resembling a conveyable fashion. Half a day later I had my bursting charges under some sort of control and wheeled my steed out on to Quay Street, where I prepared my unseasoned legs to mount up. Quay Street sounds like it should be a small, dainty and narrow cobbled byway lined with topsy-turvy olde worlde houses on one side where smugglers had once secreted their illicit contraband in intricate underground passages, and quaint brightly coloured tubby-girthed fishing vessels tethered to an ancient stone-walled harbour front on the other. Instead it’s a big fast thoroughfare officially termed Main Urban Route 6 which, if followed in either direction, will filter you on to the truckstonking State Highway 1 – a low-numbered but high-ranking swathe of tarmac that stretches the length of North Island: 1,098 kilometres (682 miles) from Cape Reinga in the north to Wellington in the south. Luckily, tackling this stately highway on my wheels could wait. And a good thing too: wobbling around on my feet fresh off a lurching boat meant that I was in no fine shape to do battle with 50-tonne logging trucks. The wobbliness didn’t last for long though as I swiftly substituted my sea legs with my cycling legs, bypassing the more unstable land legs (cycling, it seems, is the perfect antidote for oceanswaying unsteadiness). I then spun myself the short distance down Quay Street to the big ninety-one-year-old neoclassical Ferry Building that, among all the foresting tower blocks of silvery glass and steel, sat solidly squat on the city’s waterfront like a friendly fat red toad. As I was in search of an address in a district called Bayswater I took off across the harbour (lovely view!) on board a passenger ferry to Devonport. Devonport is one of Auckland’s oldest suburbs, a good 160 years old, which for a relatively new land like New Zealand is saying something. It was still raining cats and kiwis as I wheeled my bike down the pier and along the waterfront. Everything was looking very Christmassy (glittery decorations wrapped around street lamps; piped carols emanating from shop doorways across the road, including an overload of Jingle Bells, or Jungle Bills as it seemed to mutate into in the Kiwi accent) though I couldn’t for the life of me think why. Oh, yes. It was Christmas tomorrow. How could I possibly forget? Quite easily actually. © UCLES 2016

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3 2

The following passage is an entry from the online weekly blog called ‘Life as a Junior Doctor’ by Nick Knight. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract from the blog.

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(b) After a week back at work, the writer produces another entry for his blog. Write the opening of this entry (between 120 and 150 words). Base your answer closely on the language and style of the original. [10] The Penny Dropping Posted on July 17, 2014 Hello all, Now, I may have neglected to mention in my last blog entry that I am indeed on a lovely week off. Rather than opt to jet off to some sunnier climate with the rest of the country or ‘find myself’ in some far flung corner of the world (I think I might be a little old to be ‘finding myself’ at 31, perhaps! If I do – I may need a GPS1), I decided to go back to my family home. For many people (but very sadly, I appreciate, not all) the family home is a place to reconnect, recuperate and reflect on their life’s journey and take stock of what’s important. I am definitely at my most relaxed at home, I suppose in a way, safe from the pressures that I place upon myself and society backs up with a whacking great punch of expectation. I become Nick, the 31 year old doctor – regressing back to 12 year old Nick, in my old bedroom, with all the dreams and aspirations that I had back then etched on the walls and photographs.

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And it makes me smile. It makes me smile because I realise that, despite being a little older (OK, fine, a lot), a little more grizzled and life-hardened with the highs and the lows that have presented themselves, I still have those deep-rooted dreams and aspirations – I still have belief.

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I feel incredibly lucky to have these. I may lose them through life. Which brings me onto the main point of today’s blog – as I sit here with a steaming cup of mum’s tea, having just done an hour of tedious (but necessary) revision questions for an exam in September – that I wanted to share with you. It is, in a way, a mission statement.

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I woke up this morning, as I always do back home, having had a wonderful night of sleep. I awoke calmly, body still paralysed from sleep, but as I opened my eyes and my brain started to get the first dusty, cerebral cog turning2 for the day, in that moment, I just knew what kind of doctor and more globally, health professional, I want to be, am meant to be, am positioned to be.

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And it is a great feeling. So let’s look at the “I want to be” part first. Quite simply I want to promote, help and support people to be as active, fit and perform to the best of their abilities that they wish to, both cognitively3 and physically. From the 45 year old running their first marathon, the 65 year old hoping to regain some more independence after an operation, to the 23 year old fitness addict – anyone. © UCLES 2016

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4 Now what about the “am meant to be” part? ALL by fate and not design I should start by saying, in the past 12 years I have tripped my way across a degree in exercise and sports sciences, a PhD in performance nutrition, worked in health care consultancy, gained a medical degree, and helped numerous teams and individuals maximise their physical and mental performance to achieve whatever the goal – whether it be the 4 guys (and dear friends) who rowed across the Indian Ocean or my relative that wanted to lose weight and be more active. Now, I am also getting the opportunities to do some media work (and we will have to wait a couple of months to see how the Discovery TV show is received) and this yet provides me with another platform to share what I love – our body and all the highs and lows of performance that come with it. And finally the “am positioned to be” part. I am very lucky to be a doctor as it means, in time, I will get the opportunity to specialise in my passion – Sports and Exercise Medicine – a means to understand to the nth degree about how to optimise health, fitness and performance – for ANYONE. Now despite misconceptions this does not just mean for the elite athlete – in fact it is more about you or I (unless of course you are an elite athlete!), the average person who wants to get fitter or healthier so that they can play with their grandchildren for longer or walk the dog for an extra thirty minutes....

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Performance of the body and mind is my distilled, summarised passion. I like to call it “PERFORMANCE FOR LIVING”… I’m going to follow it now fully, with excitement, drive and the self-belief that I still have since I was 12 years old. Have a great week everyone,

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Dr Nick 1GPS :

Global Positioning System. cog turning : start the brain thinking. 3cognitively : in their minds/mentally. 2cerebral

© UCLES 2016

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The extract below is from Daphne du Maurier’s 1938 novel Rebecca. It describes the narrator’s return to her former home, Manderley. (a) Comment on the style and language of the extract.

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(b) Write a description of a familiar place that has been neglected (between 120 and 150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original extract. [10]

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and chain upon the gate. I called in my dream to the lodgekeeper, and had no answer, and peering closer through the rusted spokes of the gate I saw that the lodge was uninhabited. No smoke came from the chimney, and the little lattice windows gaped forlorn. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me. The drive wound away in front of me, twisting and turning as it had always done, but as I advanced I was aware that a change had come upon it; it was narrow and unkempt, not the drive that we had known. At first I was puzzled and did not understand, and it was only when I bent my head to avoid the low swinging branch of a tree that I realized what had happened. Nature had come into her own again and, little by little, in her stealthy, insidious1 way had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious2 fingers. The woods, always a menace even in the past, had triumphed in the end. They crowded, dark and uncontrolled, to the borders of the drive. The beeches with white, naked limbs leant close to one another, their branches intermingled in a strange embrace, making a vault above my head like the archway of a church. And there were other trees as well, trees that I did not recognize, squat oaks and tortured elms that straggled cheek by jowl with the beeches, and had thrust themselves out of the quiet earth, along with monster shrubs and plants, none of which I remembered. The drive was a ribbon now, a thread of its former self, with gravel surface gone, and choked with grass and moss. The trees had thrown out low branches, making an impediment to progress; the gnarled roots looked like skeleton claws. Scattered here and again amongst this jungle growth I would recognize shrubs that had been landmarks in our time, things of culture and grace, hydrangeas whose blue heads had been famous. No hand had checked their progress, and they had gone native now, rearing to monster height without a bloom, black and ugly as the nameless parasites that grew beside them. On and on, now east now west, wound the poor thread that once had been our drive. Sometimes I thought it lost, but it appeared again, beneath a fallen tree perhaps, or struggling on the other side of a muddied ditch created by the winter rains. I had not thought the way so long. Surely the miles had multiplied, even as the trees had done, and this path led but to a labyrinth, some choked wilderness, and not to the house at all. I came upon it suddenly; the approach masked by the unnatural growth of a vast shrub that spread in all directions, and I stood, my heart thumping in my breast, the strange prick of tears behind my eyes. There was Manderley, our Manderley, secretive and silent as it had always been, the grey stone shining in the moonlight of my dream, the mullioned3 windows reflecting the green lawns and the terrace. Time could not wreck the perfect symmetry of those walls, nor the site itself, a jewel in the hollow of a hand.

© UCLES 2016

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6 The terrace sloped to the lawns, and the lawns stretched to the sea, and turning I could see the sheet of silver placid under the moon, like a lake undisturbed by wind or storm. No waves would come to ruffle this dream water, and no bulk of cloud, wind-driven from the west, obscure the clarity of this pale sky. I turned again to the house, and though it stood inviolate4, untouched, as though we ourselves had left but yesterday, I saw that the garden had obeyed the jungle law, even as the woods had done. 1insidious :

gradual and secretive. grasping. 3mullioned : stone-framed. 4inviolate : safe from harm. 2tenacious :

© UCLES 2016

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The passage below is a speech made by Julia Gillard, Australian Prime Minister, in response to an attempt by the leader of the opposition – Tony Abbott – to remove the speaker (chair) of the Australian parliament from office because of sexist remarks made by text message. (a) Comment on the style and language of the extract.

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(b) Julia Gillard makes an entry in her diary the night before she gives this speech. Write this entry (between 120 and 150 words), basing your answer closely on the material of the speech. [10]

Thank you very much Deputy Speaker and I rise to oppose the motion moved by the Leader of the Opposition. And in so doing I say to the Leader of the Opposition I will not be lectured about sexism and misogyny1 by this man. I will not. And the Government will not be lectured about sexism and misogyny by this man. Not now, not ever.

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The Leader of the Opposition says that people who hold sexist views and who are misogynists are not appropriate for high office. Well I hope the Leader of the Opposition has got a piece of paper and he is writing out his resignation. Because if he wants to know what misogyny looks like in modern Australia, he doesn’t need a motion in the House of Representatives, he needs a mirror. That’s what he needs.

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Let’s go through the Opposition Leader’s repulsive double standards, repulsive double standards when it comes to misogyny and sexism. We are now supposed to take seriously that the Leader of the Opposition is offended by Mr Slipper’s text messages, when this is the Leader of the Opposition who has said, and this was when he was a minister under the last government – not when he was a student, not when he was in high school – when he was a minister under the last government. He has said, and I quote, in a discussion about women being under-represented in institutions of power in Australia – the interviewer was a man called Stavros. The Leader of the Opposition says, “If it’s true, Stavros, that men have more power generally speaking than women, is that a bad thing?”

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And then a discussion ensues, and another person says, “I want my daughter to have as much opportunity as my son.” To which the Leader of the Opposition says “Yeah, I completely agree, but what if men are by physiology or temperament, more adapted to exercise authority or to issue command?” Then ensues another discussion about women’s role in modern society, and the other person participating in the discussion says, “I think it’s very hard to deny that there is an under-representation of women,” to which the Leader of the Opposition says, “But now, there’s an assumption that this is a bad thing.” This is the man from whom we’re supposed to take lectures about sexism. And then of course it goes on. I was very offended personally when the Leader of the Opposition, as Minister of Health, said, and I quote, “Abortion is the easy way out.” I was very personally offended by those comments. You said that in March 2004, I suggest you check the records. I was also very offended on behalf of the women of Australia when in the course of this carbon pricing campaign, the Leader of the Opposition said, “What the housewives of Australia need to understand as they do the ironing…” Thank you for that painting © UCLES 2016

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3 of women’s roles in modern Australia. And then, of course, I was offended too by the sexism, by the misogyny of the Leader of the Opposition catcalling across this table at me as I sit here as Prime Minister: “If the Prime Minister wants to, politically speaking, make an honest woman of herself…”,2 something that would never have been said to any man sitting in this chair. I was offended when the Leader of the Opposition went outside in the front of Parliament and stood next to a sign that said “Ditch the witch.” And now, the Leader of the Opposition wants to be taken seriously, apparently he’s woken up after this track record and all of these statements, and he’s woken up and he’s gone, “Oh dear, there’s this thing called sexism, oh my lords, there’s this thing called misogyny. Now who’s one of them? Oh, the Speaker must be because that suits my political purpose.” Doesn’t turn a hair about any of his past statements, doesn’t walk into this Parliament and apologise to the women of Australia. Doesn’t walk into this Parliament and apologise to me for the things that have come out of his mouth. But now seeks to use this as a battering ram against someone else.

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Well this kind of hypocrisy must not be tolerated, which is why this motion from the Leader of the Opposition should not be taken seriously. 1misogyny : 2Ms

© UCLES 2016

hatred of women. Gillard had a partner but was not married at the time of the speech.

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4 2

The following extract is from The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) Later in his travels, Alain de Botton takes a journey in your own country. Write the opening of the passage (between 120 and 150 words) in which he describes this experience. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

Awakening early on that first morning, I slipped on a dressing gown provided by the hotel and went out on to the veranda. In the dawn light the sky was a pale grey-blue and, after the rustlings of the night before, all the creatures and even the wind seemed in deep sleep. It was as quiet as a library. Beyond the hotel room stretched a wide beach which was covered at first with coconut trees and then sloped unhindered towards the sea. I climbed over the veranda’s low railing and walked across the sand. Nature was at her most benevolent. It was as if, in creating this small horseshoe bay, she had chosen to atone for her ill-temper in other regions and decided for once to display only her munificence. The trees provided shade and milk, the floor of the sea was lined with shells, the sand was powdery and the colour of sun-ripened wheat, and the air – even in the shade – had an enveloping, profound warmth to it so unlike the fragility of northern European heat, always prone to cede1, even in midsummer, to a more assertive, proprietary2 chill. I found a deck chair at the edge of the sea. I could hear small lapping sounds beside me, as if a kindly monster was taking discreet sips of water from a large goblet. A few birds were waking up and beginning to career through the air in matinal3 excitement. Behind me, the raffia roofs of the hotel bungalows were visible through gaps in the trees. Before me was a view that I recognized from the brochure: the beach stretched away in a gentle curve towards the tip of the bay, behind it were jungle-covered hills, and the first row of coconut trees inclined irregularly towards the turquoise sea, as though some of them were craning their necks to catch a better angle of the sun. Yet this description only imperfectly reflects what occurred within me that morning, for my attention was in truth far more fractured and confused than the foregoing paragraphs suggest. I may have noticed a few birds careering through the air in matinal excitement, but my awareness of them was weakened by a number of other, incongruous and unrelated elements, among these, a sore throat that I had developed during the flight, a worry at not having informed a colleague that I would be away, a pressure across both temples and a rising need to visit the bathroom. A momentous but until then overlooked fact was making its first appearance: that I had inadvertently brought myself with me to the island. 1cede :

give way. customary. 3matinal : morning. 2proprietary :

© UCLES 2016

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6 3

The following text is an entry from an internet diary kept by Simon Dixey, a member of the crew of a sailing boat during their round-the-world race in 2014. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) Write Simon Dixey’s internet diary entry (between 120 and 150 words) for his first night at home after nearly a year at sea. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original. [10]

I knew it was my underwear. It had fallen from the black bin bag and was lying in a damp black heap on the floor, but surely there was something familiar – yes, there the hole in the left cuff, and just here had the moths eaten that pattern of holes in the leg. My trusty Icebreakers1 for sure. It had not been in the search for thermal base layers that I had investigated this bag, thrust to the back of our storage bunk, although I was glad enough to find them. I was really searching for my best pair of earphones (still missing, by the way) – and while on the subject, has anybody seen my coffee mug, lost since San Francisco? Just asking … Ah well, if that’s all I end up losing after nearly a year at sea, I guess I have not done too badly. On the subject of losses, however, people have been known to ask about our routes on these races. From the comfort of their armchairs, they see our wriggly tracks, hairpin bends and general meanderings and sometimes speculate as to whether we have lost our way. One mutters about weather, currents, great circles and the like, but I can see they are not convinced. And thinking about it, I am wondering if the truth is not a lot more complicated. I think it’s all Carolus’s fault. He’s a mathematician you see, and has been trying to educate us about some of the more arcane2 areas of mathematical theory, during those long hours when our boat is in BG mode (Bobbing Gently). The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, so you might think. But not always. On the surface of a globe, for instance, this is no longer true. And it turns out there are many other geometries in which this axiom3 does not apply – these non-Euclidian geometries are described by Riemann and others. So it is entirely possible that we are sailing in a non-Euclidian dimension much of the time, just popping back into 3D at Race Viewer moments and at stopover ports. So just remember: for walking or cycling then you could use Euclid, but for wandering seamen then Riemann is best. Anyway, back to planet Earth for a moment, and moving from things lost to things missed. Many of us have been thinking now about what we will miss when this adventure is over. I don’t know about missing things, but I think I will remember our boat by its little peculiarities. For instance: •

The wind angle reading that differs by 20 degrees depending on whether we are on port or starboard tack4.

The hatches that drip on you while you cook.

Navigation lights constantly on the blink.

How to close the starboard engine room door (use your hip).

Which heads5 pump out best on which tack.

The best way to tie up your lee cloth6.

© UCLES 2016

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How to reach underfloor plumbing.

And so on. And perhaps that’s the basis for many affectionate relationships, this growing familiarity with endearing eccentricities and imperfections. So do we know them – our friends, spouses or partners, the boat we have lived on for nearly a year – even in the dark, even by a touch, a smell, by the odd sounds made in the night. And it’s a wise man that knows his own underwear.

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That last line might serve as an epitaph; it is certainly a farewell. This is my absolutely, final, last crew diary entry. The race is nearly over, we have sailed into our last sunrise. In a few days’ time the sun will set on our voyage as we leave The Netherlands and head west, for London and home.

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Simon Dixey 1Icebreakers:

a brand of thermal underwear. arcane: more abstract. 3axiom: mathematical rule. 4tack: direction of a boat relative to the wind. 5heads: ship’s lavatories. 6lee cloth: a length of cloth fixed to stop sailors falling out of their bunks. 2more

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2 Answer two questions: Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3.

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The following text is the opening of a speech given by Emmeline Pankhurst in Hartford, Connecticut (USA), on 13 November, 1913. Mrs Pankhurst was a British suffragette – a campaigner for Votes for Women. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) Women were finally granted the right to vote in England in 1928. Imagine you are Mrs Pankhurst making a speech to mark this moment. Write the opening (between 120 and 150 words) of this speech. You should base your answer closely on the style and language of the original. [10]

I am here as a soldier who has temporarily left the field of battle in order to explain – it seems strange it should have to be explained – what civil war is like when civil war is waged by women. I am not only here as a soldier temporarily absent from the field at battle; I am here – and that, I think, is the strangest part of my coming – I am here as a person who, according to the law courts of my country, it has been decided, is of no value to the community at all; and I am adjudged because of my life to be a dangerous person, under sentence of penal servitude in a convict prison. It is not at all difficult if revolutionaries come to you from Russia, if they come to you from China, or from any other part of the world, if they are men. But since I am a woman it is necessary to explain why women have adopted revolutionary methods in order to win the rights of citizenship. We women, in trying to make our case clear, always have to make as part of our argument, and urge upon men in our audience the fact – a very simple fact – that women are human beings. Suppose the men of Hartford had a grievance, and they laid that grievance before their legislature,1 and the legislature obstinately refused to listen to them, or to remove their grievance, what would be the proper and the constitutional and the practical way of getting their grievance removed? Well, it is perfectly obvious at the next general election the men of Hartford would turn out that legislature and elect a new one. But let the men of Hartford imagine that they were not in the position of being voters at all, that they were governed without their consent being obtained, that the legislature turned an absolutely deaf ear to their demands, what would the men of Hartford do then? They couldn’t vote the legislature out. They would have to choose; they would have to make a choice of two evils: they would either have to submit indefinitely to an unjust state of affairs, or they would have to rise up and adopt some of the antiquated means by which men in the past got their grievances remedied. Your forefathers decided that they must have representation for taxation, many, many years ago. When they felt they couldn’t wait any longer, when they laid all the arguments before an obstinate British government that they could think of, and when their arguments were absolutely disregarded, when every other means had failed, they began by the tea party2 at Boston, and they went on until they had won the independence of the United States of America. It is about eight years since the word militant was first used to describe what we were doing. It was not militant at all, except that it provoked militancy on the part of those who were opposed to it. When women asked questions in political meetings and failed to get answers, they were not doing anything militant. In Great Britain it © UCLES 2016

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3 is a custom, a time-honoured one, to ask questions of candidates for parliament and ask questions of members of the government. No man was ever put out of a public meeting for asking a question. The first people who were put out of a political meeting for asking questions, were women; they were brutally ill-used; they found themselves in jail before 24 hours had expired.

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We were called militant, and we were quite willing to accept the name. We were determined to press this question of the enfranchisem*nt3 of women to the point where we were no longer to be ignored by the politicians. You have two babies very hungry and wanting to be fed. One baby is a patient baby, and waits indefinitely until its mother is ready to feed it. The other baby is an impatient baby and cries lustily, screams and kicks and makes everybody unpleasant until it is fed. Well, we know perfectly well which baby is attended to first. That is the whole history of politics. You have to make more noise than anybody else, you have to make yourself more obtrusive than anybody else, you have to fill all the papers more than anybody else, in fact you have to be there all the time and see that they do not snow you under.

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Notes: 1legislature:

law-making body/government. party : a famous American protest against British taxation. 3enfranchisem*nt : being given the right to vote. 2tea

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4 2

The following is an extract from the autobiography of Helen Thomas. In it, she recalls the hours leading up to her husband, Edward’s, departure to fight in the trenches in the First World War (1914–18). (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) Imagine that Helen Thomas writes a letter to a friend, telling them of her husband’s departure. Write the text of the letter (between 120 and 150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original. You do not have to bring the letter to a conclusion. [10]

Edward did not speak except now and then to say some tender word or name, and hold me tight to him. “I’ve always been able to warm you, haven’t I?” “Yes, your lovely body never feels as cold as mine does. How is it that I am so cold when my heart is so full of passion?”

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“You must have Bronwen to sleep with you while I am away. But you must not make my heart cold with sadness, but keep it warm, for no one else but you has ever found my heart, and for you it was a poor thing after all.” “No, no, no, your heart’s love is all my life. I was nothing before you came and would be nothing without your love.”

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So we lay, all night, sometimes talking of our love and all that had been, and of the children, and what had been amiss and what right. We knew the best was that there had never been untruth between us. We knew all of each other, and it was right. So talking and crying and loving in each other’s arms we fell asleep as the cold reflected light of the snow crept through the frost-covered windows.

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Edward got up and made the fire and brought me some tea, and then got back into bed, and the children clambered in, too, and sat in a row sipping our tea. I was not afraid of crying any more. My tears had been shed, my heart was empty, stricken with something that tears would not express or comfort. The gulf had been bridged. Each bore the other’s suffering.

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We concealed nothing, for all was known between us. After breakfast, while he showed me where his account books were and what each was for, I listened calmly, and unbelievingly he kissed me when I said that I, too, would keep accounts. “And here are my poems. I’ve copied them all out in this book for you and the last of all is for you. I wrote it last night, but don’t read it now... It’s still freezing. The ground is like iron, and more snow has fallen. The children will come to the station with me; and now I must be off.” We were alone in my room. He took me in his arms, holding me tightly to him, his face white, his eyes full of a fear I had never seen before. My arms were around his neck. “Beloved, I love you,” was all I could say. “Helen, Helen, Helen,” he said, “remember that, whatever happens, all is well between us for ever and ever.” © UCLES 2016

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5 And hand in hand we went downstairs and out to the children, who were playing in the snow.

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A thick mist hung everywhere, and there was not a sound except, far away in the valley, a train shunting. I stood at the gate watching him go; he turned back to wave until the mist and the hill hid him. I heard his old call coming up to me: “Coo-ee!” he called. “Coo-ee!” I answered, keeping my voice strong to call again. Again through the muffled air came his “Coo-ee”. And again went my answer like an echo.

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“Coo-ee” came fainter next time with the hill between us, but my “Coo-ee” went out of my lungs strongly, to pierce him as he strode away from me. “Coo-ee!” So faint now it might only be my own call flung back from the thick air and muffling snow. I put my hands up to my mouth to make a trumpet, but no sound came. Panic seized me, and I ran through the mist and the snow to the top of the hill, and stood there a moment dumbly, with straining eyes and ears. There was nothing but the mist and the snow and the silence of death. Then with leaden feet which stumbled in a sudden darkness that overwhelmed me I groped my way back to the empty house.

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The article below is from an American website about parenting from the Child Study Center, New York University. (a) Comment on the style and language of the extract.

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(b) Dr Kai-Ping Wang continues the article by advising parents how they might guide their children in the sensible use of video games. Write the beginning of this section of the article (between 120 and 150 words). Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original article. [10]

Video Games and Kids: Why they love them, and what parents can do to minimize the risks by Kai-Ping Wang, M.D. Rapid changes in technology, including the exponential1 growth of the video game industry, can make the already tough job of parenting even tougher. As a parent, you need to decide whether or not to allow your kids to play video games. If you already allow your children to play, you may be considering ways to minimize any potential negative effects. I’d like to address some of the aspects of video games that appeal to kids and some basic approaches for families interested in incorporating video games in moderation. Video games are a multi-billion dollar industry present in more than two-thirds of American households. About a third of parents play, and the average player age has steadily increased to about 33. Many of the more popular games incorporate adult themes. Much like the controversies that often follow popular music, movies, television and comic books, the video game industry has been increasingly scrutinized and criticized. Depending on the research, evidence on the effects of exposure to video games can be confusing and contradictory. When playing more violent games, studies describe negative effects from increased aggression, decreased inhibition to violence,2 and increased blood pressure. However, the rate of juvenile violent crime is at a historic low. Many of those studies have been criticized as being inconclusive or methodologically flawed. Positive studies tout improving hand-eye coordination (surgeons who play video games are faster and more accurate when performing microsurgery), stimulating imagination, and improving cognitive thinking, but many of those benefits can be better achieved outside video game play in pursuits such as sports, arts, music, hobbies, and other creative endeavors. Many of the negative aspects of video games are tied to excessive play. In Korea, a 28-year-old man died from exhaustion after marathon sessions of an online game known as a MMORPG (massively multiplayer online role-playing game). Excessive playing leaves less time for academic work, social development, and physical activity. When kids become obsessed with “passing the next stage” and “getting to the next level,” much like an addict, they may begin to lose their interest and desire for anything else. One public health consequence is that children and teens are much less physically active than in prior generations and we face an epidemic of overweight and obese children. While different genres of games attract different players, it’s possible – and useful – to identify some of the reasons for video games’ widespread appeal to kids. For some kids, games offer more than the passive medium of television – providing © UCLES 2016

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7 a facsimile of individualized attention and self-paced stimulation and thus avoiding the frustration of waiting for others or feeling left behind. Many attention disordered children will sit enthralled for hours with the right game. Additionally, games can be seen as very fair (in terms of consistency). Actions are usually scored in a reliable, easily learned system. Kids love fairness. Even the most observant teacher or parent may miss something. Looking to ourselves, as adults we feel good when the work we do is appreciated and acknowledged, and become increasingly frustrated if we feel taken for granted. Video games provide that constant reinforcement and reward. Another source of appeal for many games is that they grant a feeling of control and competency. There is a universal desire to affect the world around us, a sense of mastery in seeing that the actions one takes matter. Some games also track progress and growth from session to session, allowing children to “invest” in the game. Finally, online games can give kids and teens a connection with others, an ability to compete, opportunities for teamwork, and a sense of belonging in a safe, anonymous environment more insulated from peer judgement.3 When parents understand what their children see in video games, it allows us to offer alternatives, or moderate their use. Notes: 1exponential:

becoming more and more rapid. to violence: higher tolerance for, or tendencies towards, violence. 3peer judgement: judgement by people of the same age. 2inhibition

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3. 1

The following text is taken from a New Zealand newspaper. (a) Comment on the ways in which the language and style are used to present an argument.

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(b) The same newspaper publishes an article on children and exercise. Write the opening (between 120 and 150 words) for this new article. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original. [10] An evolving health crisis of childhood obesity is upon us. Is this the generation where children are condemned to live shorter lives than their parents? Dave Shaw investigates. Countless factors have led us here, with nutrition playing a major role. Many foods now advertised to kids are higher in sugar, salt and fat than those targeted at young generations before. Children are hardwired to fall for these flavours. The food industry is arguably exploiting the biology – and psychology – of children. They aren’t just providing a source of calories and nutrients for a child, they’re impacting their health in a way that could warrant future legal action. Many children are growing up believing food should be served deep-fried and sugar coated. Is this ethical? If other countries were causing havoc on our children’s health like this, then we’d put a stop to it. A film shedding light on this topic is Fed Up which may be the most important documentary in recent times. The film essentially says we have a problem, a problem that many vested interests have no intention of solving, and a problem that must be dealt with if we’re interested in our survival.

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In the food industry’s defence, they are giving us what we want and if we ask for healthier foods, they will provide. But in the end, profits come first. Here’s a heads up about some food industry insights that may be affecting you and your family. The bliss point: This is the perfect amount of sugar – or salt and fat – that allows a food to become highly salient1. When these tastes combine, they provide a dopamine-fuelled rush driving us to eat more. It’s no surprise children want to eat more of the food that tastes good. Unfortunately, the high consumption of sugary, salty and fatty foods can lead to obesity, metabolic syndrome, diabetes or much worse. Hyperprocessed food: There are many heavy hitting facts about the harms of eating too much sugary and other hyperprocessed foods, yet many of us continue to buy, serve and eat them every day. There is no difference between some processed food and sugar itself. Saying you can eat a bowl of cornflakes with no added sugar or a bowl of sugar with no added cornflakes can be essentially the same thing.

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3 ‘Eater’-tainment: The food industry has learned what humans want and is only too happy to oblige. At every eating opportunity or on every street corner awaits a sugary or salty snack made to satisfy our craving. It’s what people of all ages gorge on to feel good for a few moments or to relax. Who doesn’t want to get on this ride, right? And when we do, we are only more than tempted to ride it again and again. Marketing: 
The marketing of children’s food is a controversial topic, with many companies under siege for how they promote their food to youngsters. Children often don’t know the difference between good and bad food and have to rely on others to tell them – usually their parents. But when they see the Golden Arches2 or colourful packages covered in cartoons they immediately connect with a product. After tasting the addictive combination of sugar, salt and fat, the marketing image is permanently engraved on their mind. Suddenly, they want more. Maternal disempowerment: What does a mother do when she has the difficult choice of giving her child what they want or giving them what’s best for their health? This is a common struggle against an overwhelming tide of marketing and, possibly, addiction. Sometimes even the parents don’t know what’s best, so who’s left to pick up the reins? Parents, and their children, need to be educated on what are the healthier options, and the healthier choice must become the easier choice. Public misperception: A fast food diet should not be socially accepted, but it is. So, the real goal is to change how we view food. The government has a role to play, but if we look at the great public health successes, they come from changes in how we perceive a product. Smoking for example is now seen as deadly and disgusting, when it was once sexy. If you look at something and say, “that’s horrible, I’d rather have something else,” you’re not going to feel drawn to eat it. We can apply this learning to how we eat. We need to take the power out of certain foods: from there saying “no” to eating junk is easy. 1 2

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salient : flavoursome and appealing. Golden Arches: the trademark of an international hamburger chain.

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4 2

The following text is the opening of the novel A Fine Balance, by Rohinton Mistry. The novel is set in India in the 1970s. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) Continue the passage (between 120 and 150 words). Base your answer closely on the language and style of the original. You do not need to bring the passage to a conclusion. [10] Dina Dalal seldom indulged in looking back at her life

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Enlisting him would have ruined any chance of changing her husband’s mind.

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5 3

The following extract presents the American writer Eleanor Clark’s first impressions on visiting Rome in the 1940s. (a) Comment on the language and style of the extract.

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(b) Imagine that the same writer visits a place that you know well and records her first impressions. Write a section of her essay (between 120 and 150 words). Base your answer closely on the language and style of the original extract. You do not have to bring the essay to a conclusion. [10] Fountains You walk close to your dreams. Sometimes it seems that these pulsing crowds, with their daily and yearly rhythms established so long ago none of it has to be decided any more, with their elbows and knees and souls touching and rubbing and everybody most pleased and agreeable when it is like that, in a bus for instance, will in another minute all be naked, or will have fish tails or horses’ behinds like the characters of the fountains. For the Anglo-Saxon mind, ruled by conscience and the romantic, rigid in its privacies, everything here is shocking—an endless revelation and immersion; this is the vocabulary of our sleep; and the key image is always water. That is the great assault of Rome, and it is total and terrible. It is really strange that foreigners of the polite centuries always used to wax so romantic about the fountains of Rome, and the music supposed to represent them was such as any young girl could listen to. The truth is, they are extremely indecent, in various ways. Their number is indecent, much as the lives of the Caesars were; common reason expires here; it is of their nature too to make those lives quite ordinary, nothing surprises you beside them. Their settings are apt to be extravagant; they can have sprung up anywhere, be tacked anywhere on the sides of buildings or are themselves a whole house wall; and their details have the candid, smiling sadism of dreams. But the worst is the life around them, and their part in it. They are not only memory, or the living singleness of time, though they are that too and the city would have fallen apart under the weight of its past a long time ago without them; this is easy to see; you notice at once when there is a drought and the fountains become quiet and stale, or empty, how old everything begins to look. But there is another unity or community within every single moment to which they are essential, and that is where the real outrage comes.

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The romantic, the idealist, the tender-minded of any vein dies a thousand deaths in these fountains; their every dolphin is his nemesis1. The very genius spent on them makes them shocking. They are not objets d’art 2 held off from life and treated with respect as they would be anywhere else; there is a closeness, an imminence of touch around them that nothing in our life has except dreams and sex, whence the awful burden on those. They are always being drunk from and splashed in and sat on, everybody dips into them as into his own private memory and quite often they have all kinds of rubbish in their lovely basins, because although the street cleaners of Rome are many and hard-working they cannot be everywhere at once. 1 2

nemesis: the agent of someone’s downfall. objets d’art : artistic objects.

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2 Answer Question 1 and either Question 2 or Question 3. 1

The following extract is taken from the novel The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri. Gogol and Sonia have been brought up in America and are now visiting India with their parents (Ashoke and Ashima) for the first time. (a) Comment on the style and language of the extract and the ways in which it conveys the children’s reactions to the situation. [15] (b) The children’s mother keeps a diary of the visit, noting in particular her own feelings about seeing her children in a new place. Write a section (120–150 words) of her diary. Base your answer closely on the material of the original extract. [10] The wheels touch the ground, the aircraft is sprayed with disinfectant,

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the armoire in which they would have stored their clothes.

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The following is from a magazine review of a computer game called Harold. (a) Comment on the language and style of the passage.

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(b) Write an extract (120–150 words) from a review of a hobby or activity that you know well. Base your answer closely on the style and features of the original passage. [10]

Harold Review Devilishly difficult. Harold is a cleverly crafted, personality-packed infinite-runner platformer with visual style to spare. Its title character, however, is an awkward athlete and a bit of a loser, both literally and figuratively. Despite Harold’s unwavering determination and enduring spirit, he does dumb things, like high-fiving a cactus. Thankfully, you don’t assume the role of this doomed underdog, but of his equally-determined guardian angel Gabe. The monkey wrench1 in this race is that you have no direct control over the perpetual runner, so clearing and altering his path via divine intervention is the key to ensuring that the lanky, bespectacled competitor finishes in at least third place. Earning the bronze is no simple feat, though, as Harold is an intentionally difficult game, one that ultimately has hardcore completionists and seasoned speed runners in mind.

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The courses sport the usual platforming elements and obstacles, from moving blocks and slippery surfaces to spiky walls and bottomless pits, but Harold goes beyond the tried-and-true template with some especially inspired touches; using an ethereal mallet to transform a chomping crocodile into a belly-up bridge and flinging Harold forward with a sling-shotting noose trap never gets old.

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Interacting with these hazards involves using the left analog stick in a variety of ways: a single level could see you pushing, pulling, flicking, and rotating the stick over the course of just a few seconds. Given how you also cycle through obstacles by squeezing the triggers, Harold puts your nimble fingers through the paces. It feels fantastic when you’re in the zone—circumventing traps, swinging on ropes, and hitting the ground running with a speed boost—but getting to that point takes some serious practice. …

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Harold’s gameplay is complemented by a hand-drawn art style that wouldn’t look out of place in a 90s era Disney film. Seriously, swap the runners—during the jungle races—with the cast of The Lion King, and the action wouldn’t miss a visual beat. The pop-off-the-screen art style isn’t limited to static backgrounds, either; characters animate in amazing, cartoony detail, and gameplay elements, like rope bridge planks that can be popped to persuade Harold to pick up the pace, bring the pretty presentation to life. Sadly, Harold’s steep difficulty doesn’t leave you with any time to admire the gorgeous surroundings like a first time tourist. As pleasing as the presentation is, only the most skilled players will enjoy having their eyes and reflexes engaged simultaneously. Harold is at its fleet-footed best when everything clicks; when your divine guidance not only propels the protagonist to victory, but also leaves his co*cky competition on the wrong end of a devious trap. But these momentum-fueled moments will be experienced by only the most dedicated players. And even genre enthusiasts will occasionally be let down by the gamepad-only controls; the inputs are generally © UCLES 2017

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5 spot-on, but the mouse-and-keyboard crowd might miss the precision of their preferred set-ups when they’re called upon to manage multiple tasks simultaneously. Although this genre’s been done to death, Harold’s inspired levels, imaginative mechanics, eye-popping presentation, endless charm, and steep challenge separate it from the pack. It’s only that latter element that crosses the line, sometimes making Harold more frustrating than fun. This game’s reflex-taxing level of difficulty isn’t for the faint of heart. However, if you’re not afraid of a few laps on the trial-and-error treadmill, Harold might just become your next endless-runner fixation. 1 monkey

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The following text is the opening of an article which catalogues seven types of workplace boss that employees may encounter. (a) Comment on the style and language of the passage.

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(b) You have been asked to write an article entitled Five Types of Fabulous Friends. Write the opening (120–150 words) of this new piece. Base your answer closely on the style and language of the original passage. [10]

Seven types of horrible boss There are some terrific leaders out there, but unfortunately there are also some absolute stinkers. I’ve encountered lots of types of horrible boss over the past couple of decades. I’ve put together our top seven types of horrible boss. Let’s kick off with one I’m sure we can all identify with.

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Horrible Boss No 1: The Lost Lamb This is the poor soul who has risen through the ranks too quickly and is now completely out of their depth. They literally have no idea what they are doing and are certainly not ready to manage other people. Their shortcomings should quickly be found out and they will hopefully tumble back down the corporate ladder as quickly as they came up it. In the meantime, be careful not to pick up their slack, therefore keeping them in denial of their own ineffectiveness and in the lofty managerial position that just isn’t right for them. Horrible Boss No 2: Miserable McMisery I don’t expect people to be buoyant all the time, but how on earth do leaders expect to motivate staff when they are continually grumpy, stressed or angry? A Miserable McMisery can also be extremely unapproachable, meaning staff are unlikely to share any problems they have with projects, which can have a massive detrimental effect on productivity. Don’t sink to their levels of despondency and try to keep the relationship as professional as possible.

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Horrible Boss No 3: The BFF This is the horrible boss, better known as everyone’s “best friend forever”, who hasn’t quite managed to strike that balance between professionalism and camaraderie. They can’t fathom why befriending you on Facebook doesn’t really send the right message to the rest of the team. They don’t really command the respect they crave and can’t understand why nobody takes them seriously in the workplace.

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Horrible Boss No 4: The Energiser This horrible boss makes you feel as if even your greatest efforts are barely 10 per cent of what they achieve on a regular basis. Nicknamed the Energiser because they keep going and going; working late, getting in early and even working weekends. They will think nothing of sending emails from their BlackBerry at 4 am marked “URGENT” and will always set the right example by getting into work even if their appendix has just been removed or the office has been hit by a meteorite. Don’t try to compete. If they want to work themselves into the ground, leave them to it! © UCLES 2017

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7 Horrible Boss No 5: Terry Teflon Terry Teflons will take the credit when their team delivers the goods but will be quick to point the finger when the team messes up. They hide their lack of abilities by changing direction so frequently that people stop paying them any attention. Remember that top-priority project they launched last month? Well guess what? It’s been superseded by another lame-brain scheme Terry Teflon is sure will make all the difference this time around. Don’t be afraid to question the thought processes behind their projects, but remember you are judged on execution as well as results, so sometimes you will have to go along with their bizarre projects.

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Horrible Boss No 6: The Big Baby

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This is the boss who acts like a toddler, constantly whingeing and complaining about their own boss to you. The way to manage a big baby is to ensure you don’t stoop to their level. Stay professional, positive and neutral. Eventually they will get the message that you are not a sympathetic ear and they will move on to other poor souls who will feel the brunt of their misery.

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Horrible Boss No 7: The Climber The climber always has promotion at the forefront of their thoughts and is desperate to get to the top of that corporate ladder, no matter what it takes. Ultimately they will see you as just a piece of their jigsaw to achieve success and will trample over you if you get in their way. The best way to manage the climber’s peaco*ck-like ego is to tell them that you understand that your job is to make them look good and then try to step into their shoes as soon as they get that swift promotion. In summary, if you don’t get on with your boss it can be a real pain and your options might be limited. Don’t suffer in silence though, life is too short and if your problems are unresolvable, there are always other jobs out there.

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2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing

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Write a detailed description of a deserted and isolated place which helps to create the atmosphere of either a horror or suspense story.

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Write the opening scene of a drama-script for a new radio soap-opera. You should make sure that the script establishes the personalities of the principal characters and their relationships with each other.

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Write a section called ‘Early Childhood’ as part of your own autobiography. The section should convey some of your strongest memories from your early life.

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Write a descriptive piece about the effects of a natural disaster on a particular place. You should try to capture the atmosphere and mood both before and after the event.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

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As a representative of your school or college, you have been asked to give a welcoming speech to a party of visiting teachers and students from a different country. In your speech you should try to highlight the positive aspects of your own country and culture.

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‘Ignorance is bliss.’ ‘You can never learn too much.’ Which view are you in closer agreement with, and why?

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Write the opening of a magazine feature called ‘Dangerous Fools’ intended to explore different views of the behaviour of people who pursue extreme and dangerous sports, or who take on record-breaking challenges.

8

‘Technology gives young people today knowledge and power that they have never had before. The implications are rather serious.’ Do you agree? You should offer detailed reasons for your views.

8693/02/M/J/03

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing

1

Writers often use setting to reflect the moods and thoughts of their characters. Write the opening to a novel or short story in which a detailed use of setting helps the reader to appreciate the moods and thoughts of a character or characters.

2

Imagine that someone has written a diary which records how he or she came to terms with a personal failure. Write some of the extracts from the diary, capturing the changing moods and thoughts of the writer over time.

3

Write a complete short story called ‘The Outsider’. In writing the piece you should try to convey how a community reacts to the arrival of an eccentric or unusual character.

4

Write two contrasting descriptive pieces [300–450 words each] about two different times of the day and their effect on a particular place. In describing each time you should create clear contrasts in mood and atmosphere.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

Write a magazine feature for older readers called ‘Brave New World’. The feature should try to persuade the reader that current and future technology is not simply aimed at young people but that it can benefit older people too. The article should be written in a lively and interesting way.

6

‘There is too much power in the hands of too few people in society today.’ How far do you agree?

7

A major television company is running a competition to find a presenter for its new youth music and entertainment show. Entrants are required to write in outlining their personal qualities, what they could bring to the show and ideas about how they could present it. Write your entry.

8

‘Genetic research and experiments are doing more harm than good.’ What do you think?

University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES) which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2004

8693/02/M/J/04

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing

1

Write a complete short story called ‘The Conversion’. In writing the piece you should describe the ways in which a particular character’s thoughts and attitudes are dramatically altered by his or her experiences.

2

Write two contrasting descriptive pieces [around 300–450 words each] which portray the scene before a party or a festival and the scene after it. In your writing you should bring out differences in mood and atmosphere.

3

In the form of a series of diary entries or a letter home, describe the experiences and emotions of a character who travels abroad for the first time. In your writing you should bring out his or her feelings about the new country compared with the one he or she has lived in before.

4

Write a monologue in which the narrator is a camera or mirror which records changes in a particular place or a particular character over a period of time. In your writing you should bring out differences in mood and atmosphere.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

Can it ever be right for one nation to interfere in the affairs of another?

6

The United Nations is running an international competition called ‘What My Country and Culture Can Offer Others’. To enter, write an essay explaining what people around the world could learn from your country’s traditions and ways of life.

7

You are to be left alone on a desert island, from which you cannot escape, for a month. You have basic survival rations, but you are also allowed three luxury items. Explain which luxury items you would take with you and why.

8

You have been asked to write a magazine feature called ‘My Role Model’. In it, you should explain why a particular person (alive or dead) inspires you, and try to persuade readers that they should share your enthusiasm.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace all copyright holders where the publishers (i.e. UCLES) are aware that third-party material has been reproduced. The publishers would be pleased to hear from anyone whose rights they have unwittingly infringed. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2005

8693/02/M/J/05

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative / Descriptive / Imaginative Writing 1

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300– 450 words each) describing the same character when he/she is young and then old. In your writing you should try to bring out differences in the character’s appearance and outlook on life.

2

Write a short chapter from your autobiography which focuses on a specific turning point or memory. In your writing you should try to bring out a specific sense of atmosphere.

3

Write a drama-script called ‘The Second Generation’ in which a younger member of a family comes into conflict with an older one. In your writing you should try to bring out differences in character and attitude.

4

Write the opening chapter of a novel called The Underworld. In your writing you should try to bring out a sense of mystery and suspense.

Section B: Discursive / Argumentative Writing 5

‘Schooldays: the happiest days of your life.’ Do you agree?

6

You have been asked to contribute an article called ‘Great Reading!’ to a magazine aimed at teenagers. The article is meant to encourage them to discover the pleasures of reading. Write the article.

7

If you were granted three wishes, what would they be – and why?

8

A proposal to build a new development (such as a housing estate, a chemical factory or a dam) has been made in the region where you live. The development would be constructed in an area of natural beauty. Write two letters (between 300– 450 words each) to your local newspaper, one in support of the proposal and the other against it.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2006

8693/02/M/J/06

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300– 450 words each) describing a sunrise and a sunset over the same place on the same day. In your writing you should try to bring out differences in mood and atmosphere.

2

Using two interior monologues (between 300– 450 words each), write a script for radio in which two members of the same family offer different reactions to the arrival of a newcomer to their household. In your writing you should try to bring out their emotions and the reasons for their feelings.

3

Write a short story called ‘The Confession’ in which the narrator gradually reveals the real reasons why he or she behaved in a certain way.

4

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called Dark Star. In your writing you should try to bring out a sense of a futuristic and mysterious world.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘East is East and West is West … and never shall they meet.’ Can the world ever live in harmony?

6

You have just read an article in a teenage magazine which argues that young people’s increased access to the media and new technology is beneficial for a number of reasons. You feel very strongly about this and write to the magazine disagreeing with the ideas in the article. Write the letter.

7

If you had unlimited wealth, what would you do with it – and why?

8

You have been invited to reply to an article which appeared recently in your local newspaper. In the article the writer argued that women’s rights have been taken too far and that men feel that they have lost their status and identity. Write your reply.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2007

8693/02/M/J/07

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B.

Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition. Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

You are in paradise. What is it like?

2

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each) describing your first day at school and your last day at school. In your writing you should try to bring out contrasts in mood and atmosphere.

3

Write the opening chapter to a novel called In the City of the Future. In your writing you should try to bring out a sense of setting and character.

4

Write a descriptive piece called ‘The Storm’. In your writing you should try to bring out an increasing sense of the power and force of extreme weather.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

Does history teach us anything?

6

A media website which displays reviews has invited contributions from its users about a particular book, film or television programme. Write two users’ contrasting reviews (between 300–450 words each) about the same title, bringing out clear reasons for their different opinions.

7

‘The punishment should fit the crime.’ Do you agree?

8

You have been invited to write a brief article for a teenage magazine in which you offer advice to its readers on dealing with stress and adopting a healthy lifestyle. Write the article.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2008

8693/02/M/J/08

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two contrasting descriptive pieces (between 300–450 words each) about a building and its surroundings. One of the pieces should convey a sense of neglect and the other a sense of restoration and newness. In your writing you should bring out clear contrasts in setting and atmosphere.

2

Write the opening chapter of a novel entitled The Invasion. In your writing you should create a mood of fear and suspense.

3

Write two monologues (between 300–450 words each). One reveals the thoughts and feelings of a parent about the behaviour and attitude of his or her teenage son or daughter; the other reveals the thoughts and feelings of the teenage son or daughter about the parent. In your writing you should bring out clear contrasts in character and outlook.

4

Write a short story called Magic. In it you should bring out a sense of an unexpected and unusual ending.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Conspiracy theories are nothing more than conspiracies themselves.’ Do you agree?

6

It has been announced that a major new development consisting of industrial areas and residential housing is to be built in the centre of your community. Two letters (between 300–450 words each) are sent to the local newspaper. One letter strongly supports the proposal, the other is strongly against it. Write the letters.

7

‘Students should spend their time studying: too many have part-time jobs.’ What is your view?

8

A national tourist attraction describes itself as ‘The Eighth Wonder of the World’ and produces an article on its website explaining why it believes this. However, a visitor to the attraction has certainly not been impressed by its claims and posts ideas on the same website forum explaining why. Write both pieces (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2009

8693/02/M/J/09

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a short story called Mistaken Identity. Your writing should create a situation which has a surprising ending.

2

Write the opening chapter of a novel called The Survivors. In your writing create an atmosphere of mystery and tension.

3

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each) based on the thoughts of an elderly couple. In the first piece one partner remembers the early days of their relationship, and in the second the other partner reflects on their lives together now. In your writing create a sense of contrasting emotions and attitudes.

4

Write a descriptive piece about a location (such as a building or a landscape) which has remained unchanged for a long time.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘There is far too much money in sport.’ What do you think – and why?

6

Write two contrasting newspaper articles (between 300–450 words each), one called ‘Only Science Can Save Us’ and the other called ‘Faith Is What the World Needs’. In the articles you should develop reasons and examples for both points of view.

7

‘No one is above the law.’ ‘Rules sometimes need to be broken.’ Which view are you in closer agreement with – and why?

8

Your regional authority needs to make cutbacks to public services (such as hospitals, transport and libraries). Managers of two different public services write letters to the authority explaining why they should not have their funds cut. Write both letters (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2010

8693/21/M/J/10

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write the opening chapter of a novel entitled The Gangster. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each) about two people in the same school year. The first piece describes them at the point where they are about to leave school; the second piece describes them when they meet up again at a student reunion several years later. In your writing create a sense of their physical appearances and characters.

3

Write a short story called Arriving for the First Time. In your writing convey the thoughts and feelings of a narrator moving to a new and previously unseen location.

4

Write a descriptive piece called The Jungle. In your writing create an atmosphere of mystery and the unknown.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘The internet should be subject to far more control and censorship.’ What is your view – and why do you hold this view?

6

Write two contrasting magazine features (between 300–450 words each) which describe an imaginary public figure (such as a politician or celebrity) – one at the height of her or his success, and the other when she or he has fallen into decline and disgrace.

7

‘Technology has helped to destroy the planet.’ ‘Technology is the only thing that can save the planet.’ Which view are you in closer agreement with – and why?

8

Two students from your school have been invited to participate in a public speaking competition called ‘National Security: A Threat to Our Freedoms or Not?’ One student speaks in favour of increasing forms of national security (such as increased police powers and public surveillance). Afterwards the other student speaks against this. Write the two speeches (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2010

8693/22/M/J/10

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write the opening chapter of a novel entitled The Gangster. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each) about two people in the same school year. The first piece describes them at the point where they are about to leave school; the second piece describes them when they meet up again at a student reunion several years later. In your writing create a sense of their physical appearances and characters.

3

Write a short story called Arriving for the First Time. In your writing convey the thoughts and feelings of a narrator moving to a new and previously unseen location.

4

Write a descriptive piece called The Jungle. In your writing create an atmosphere of mystery and the unknown.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘The internet should be subject to far more control and censorship.’ What is your view – and why do you hold this view?

6

Write two contrasting magazine features (between 300–450 words each) which describe an imaginary public figure (such as a politician or celebrity) – one at the height of her or his success, and the other when she or he has fallen into decline and disgrace.

7

‘Technology has helped to destroy the planet.’ ‘Technology is the only thing that can save the planet.’ Which view are you in closer agreement with – and why?

8

Two students from your school have been invited to participate in a public speaking competition called ‘National Security: A Threat to Our Freedoms or Not?’ One student speaks in favour of increasing forms of national security (such as increased police powers and public surveillance). Afterwards the other student speaks against this. Write the two speeches (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2010

8693/23/M/J/10

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two contrasting descriptive pieces (between 300–450 words each): the first about the setting and the people present just before a sporting event begins, and the second about the same aspects just after the event has finished. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

2

Write the opening to a short story called Deception. In your writing create a sense of character and motivation.

3

Write the short opening chapter to a novel called The Forest. In your writing create a sense of mystery and suspense.

4

Write two contrasting monologues (between 300–450 words each), about a long-standing dispute between two neighbours. In each monologue, one neighbour expresses her/his thoughts and feelings about the dispute. In your writing create a sense of different attitudes and viewpoints.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘The Olympic Games are a complete waste of money and should be abolished.’ What do you think – and why?

6

Write a magazine article called ‘Looking Good and Feeling Good’, in which you explore how teenagers can lead a healthy and active lifestyle, and why they should.

7

‘Social networking sites – such as Facebook and Twitter – do more harm than good.’ What do you think – and why?

8

At a school debate called ‘The School Leaving Age’ two speakers each present their views. One is in favour of lowering the leaving age, the other is in favour of making it higher. Write the two speeches (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2011

8693/21/M/J/11

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each), the first about a busy city centre in the middle of the day, and the second about the same place in the middle of the night. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

2

Write the opening to a short story called The Secret Meeting. In your writing create a sense of character and motivation.

3

Write a short opening chapter to a novel called The Darkness Came Down. In your writing create a sense of mystery and suspense.

4

Write two contrasting monologues (between 300–450 words each) in which an employee and an employer, who both work in the same place, express their thoughts and feelings about their own jobs and colleagues. In your writing create differing attitudes and viewpoints.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘The use of animals for sport should be banned with immediate effect.’ What do you think – and why?

6

Write a magazine article called ‘The Inner You’. In it you argue that it is possible for teenagers always to feel confident about themselves and offer guidance and advice about how they can do so.

7

‘Downloading music, films and television programmes without paying can never be justified.’ Do you agree? You should offer detailed reasons for your opinions.

8

A public speaking contest called ‘Teenagers and the Law’ is being held. One speaker argues that the legal age limits for one or more activities should be raised for teenagers, the other that they should be lowered. Write the two speeches (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2011

8693/22/M/J/11

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each), the first about a busy city centre in the middle of the day, and the second about the same place in the middle of the night. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

2

Write the opening to a short story called The Secret Meeting. In your writing create a sense of character and motivation.

3

Write a short opening chapter to a novel called The Darkness Came Down. In your writing create a sense of mystery and suspense.

4

Write two contrasting monologues (between 300–450 words each) in which an employee and an employer, who both work in the same place, express their thoughts and feelings about their own jobs and colleagues. In your writing create differing attitudes and viewpoints.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘The use of animals for sport should be banned with immediate effect.’ What do you think – and why?

6

Write a magazine article called ‘The Inner You’. In it you argue that it is possible for teenagers always to feel confident about themselves and offer guidance and advice about how they can do so.

7

‘Downloading music, films and television programmes without paying can never be justified.’ Do you agree? You should offer detailed reasons for your opinions.

8

A public speaking contest called ‘Teenagers and the Law’ is being held. One speaker argues that the legal age limits for one or more activities should be raised for teenagers, the other that they should be lowered. Write the two speeches (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2011

8693/23/M/J/11

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a descriptive piece called Ghost Town. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

2

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called The Coach Trip. In your writing create two contrasting characters who have different reasons for being on the journey.

3

Write a contemporary version of a well-known myth, legend or fairy tale.

4

Write two contrasting monologues (between 300–450 words each). In the first monologue the speaker describes a life without money. In the second monologue the same speaker describes how a substantial win on a lottery has affected her or his life. In your writing create a sense of contrasting attitudes and emotions.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Capitalism only makes the rich richer and the poor poorer.’ What do you think – and why?

6

Write a letter to a ten-year-old relative in which you offer advice on how to prepare for and cope with life as a teenager.

7

‘Feminism is a thing of the past.’ What do you think – and why?

8

A magazine publishes two contrasting articles, one called ‘Marriage is now an outdated concept’, the other called ‘Marriage is still the foundation of society’. Write the two articles (between 300– 450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2012

8693/21/M/J/12

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called The Land that Time Forgot. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

2

Write a short story called The Day Trip. In your writing create two contrasting characters who have different reasons for being on the same outing.

3

Write a descriptive piece called Claustrophobia. In your writing create a sense of danger and tension.

4

Write two contrasting monologues (between 300–450 words each). In the first monologue, a young speaker reveals her or his hopes for a happy and successful life. In the second monologue, the same, but now elderly, speaker reflects on where it all went wrong. In your writing create a sense of contrasting attitudes and viewpoints.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Social equality has never worked, nor will it ever do so.’ What do you think – and why?

6

Write a letter to your five-year-old self offering guidance on what to enjoy and what to avoid as you grow up.

7

‘Men need their rights just as much as women need theirs.’ What do you think – and why?

8

A magazine publishes two contrasting articles, one called ‘Parents Should Be Made Legally Responsible for the Actions of Their Children’, and the other called ‘There Is Only So Much Parents Can Do’. Write the two articles (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2012

8693/22/M/J/12

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called The Land that Time Forgot. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

2

Write a short story called The Day Trip. In your writing create two contrasting characters who have different reasons for being on the same outing.

3

Write a descriptive piece called Claustrophobia. In your writing create a sense of danger and tension.

4

Write two contrasting monologues (between 300–450 words each). In the first monologue, a young speaker reveals her or his hopes for a happy and successful life. In the second monologue, the same, but now elderly, speaker reflects on where it all went wrong. In your writing create a sense of contrasting attitudes and viewpoints.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Social equality has never worked, nor will it ever do so.’ What do you think – and why?

6

Write a letter to your five-year-old self offering guidance on what to enjoy and what to avoid as you grow up.

7

‘Men need their rights just as much as women need theirs.’ What do you think – and why?

8

A magazine publishes two contrasting articles, one called ‘Parents Should Be Made Legally Responsible for the Actions of Their Children’, and the other called ‘There Is Only So Much Parents Can Do’. Write the two articles (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2012

8693/23/M/J/12

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a descriptive piece called The Wedding. In your writing create a sense of setting and atmosphere.

2

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called The Spy. In your writing create a sense of mystery and suspense.

3

Write a short story called Bright Star. In your writing create a sense of a futuristic and unusual world.

4

Write a story called The Truth in which you reveal the real reasons for your behaviour at an event in the past.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Democracy is really a myth: a small group at the top always has the real power.’ What do you think – and why?

6

A magazine aimed at young teenagers publishes profiles of a new boy band/girl band. Each of the three members of this band wants to be regarded as an individual rather than just as a member of the band. Write the profiles (which should be about 200–300 words each).

7

‘Being the best is not necessarily as important as it is made out to be.’ Do you agree? You should give detailed reasons in your answer.

8

Write a newspaper article called ‘Improving Your Chances.’ In it you give guidance and advice to teenagers on how they can be successful when attending job interviews.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2013

8693/21/M/J/13

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a descriptive piece called The Music Festival. In your writing create a sense of setting and atmosphere.

2

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called The Enemy Within. In your writing create a sense of danger and tension.

3

Write a short story called Space City. In your writing create a sense of an unusual and sinister world.

4

Write a story called The Lie in which you reveal the reasons for a lie you once told.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘A country should be ruled by its people.’ What do you think – and why?

6

A new television reality show aimed at an elderly audience publishes profiles of three of its contestants on its website. Each contestant offers a different kind of image. Write the profiles (which should be about 200–300 words each).

7

‘You don’t really need good qualifications to be a good teacher.’ Do you agree? You should give detailed reasons in your answer.

8

Write a newspaper article called ‘Improving Family Relationships.’ In it you give guidance and advice to teenagers on how they can get on more successfully with different family members.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2013

8693/22/M/J/13

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a descriptive piece called The School Leaving Party. In your writing create a sense of setting and atmosphere.

2

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called Double Identity. In your writing create a sense of fear and uncertainty.

3

Write a short story called Ocean World. In your writing create a sense of a mysterious and magical location.

4

Write a story called Evidence at Last in which the truth about a past event is finally revealed.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Patriotism does more harm than good.’ What do you think – and why?

6

A film magazine aimed at teenagers publishes profiles of three young actors who have recently featured in a successful film. The magazine is trying to persuade its audience to see the film. Each actor offers a different kind of image. Write the profiles (which should be about 200–300 words each).

7

‘It is better for children to be educated in a boys-only or girls-only school.’ Do you agree? You should give detailed reasons in your answer.

8

Write a newspaper article called ‘Improving Your Communication Skills’. In it you give guidance and advice to readers on how they can improve their public speaking and presentation skills.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2013

8693/23/M/J/13

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the opening to a story called The Tower. In your writing, create a sense of mystery and suspense.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each), the first about the behaviour of a comedian performing in public and the second about the same comedian’s rather different private personality. In your writing, create a sense of character and mood.

3

Write a piece called Rain, in which the narrator describes in detail her or his experience of unusual weather. In your writing, focus on colours and sounds to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

A property agent advertises two houses for sale, on the company’s website. One house is moderately priced, the other very expensive. Write the text for the advertisem*nts (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a strong sense of the houses’ merits and desirability.

5

A magazine aimed at teenagers publishes an article called Stress – What Stress? The article offers guidance to its readers on how to cope with preparing for different situations in life (for example, coping with schoolwork or getting a job for the first time). Write the text for the article. In your writing, create a sense of practical advice and positive thinking.

6

Your local library publishes a leaflet called The Joys of Reading, as part of a campaign to promote the activity. Write the text for the leaflet. In your writing, create a sense of the pleasures and benefits that reading can bring.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2014

9093/21/M/J/14

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the opening to a story called The Unsolved Crime. In your writing, create a sense of tension and suspense.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300– 450 words each), the first about a quiet and undisturbed location and the second about the same place after it has become a busy tourist attraction. In your writing, create a sense of setting and mood.

3

Write a piece called Heatwave, in which the narrator describes in detail her or his experience of unusual weather. In your writing, focus on colours and sounds to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

A magazine aimed at teenagers publishes two short articles which consider the ways the media represent young people. One article takes a positive view of the subject, the other a much more negative one. Write the text for the articles (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of opposing viewpoints and attitudes.

5

Write a section of the script for a radio documentary called Young at Heart. The script is aimed at people who are reaching retirement age. In your writing, create a sense of how people of this age can still enjoy interests and events they may consider themselves too old for.

6

A sports and leisure centre is trying to attract interested beginners to sample its facilities. To do so, it publishes different articles about the benefits of the various activities on offer on its website. Write the text for one of the articles. In your writing, create a sense of a positive and enthusiastic attitude.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2014

9093/22/M/J/14

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the opening to a short story called Moonlight. In your writing, create a sense of threat and fear.

2

Write two descriptive pieces (between 300–450 words each), the first about a busy location viewed at ground level and the second about the same location viewed from a position much higher up. In your writing, create a sense of setting and mood.

3

Write a piece in which the narrator describes in detail a scene in which she or he feels a sense of wonder at the natural world. In your writing, focus on colours and textures to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

Two applicants apply for the same online job vacancy. They are required to submit descriptions of their qualities and experience and the reasons why they are suitable for the position. Write the text for each application (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of the applicants’ different backgrounds and outlooks.

5

A local newspaper publishes a feature called Retirement Should Be Compulsory: Make Way for the Young. One reader feels strongly about the article and writes a letter to the newspaper to express her or his views. Write the letter. In your writing, create a sense of controlled and reasoned argument.

6

A human aid charity wishes to increase its funds. It makes a short promotional film to describe and explain the work that it does and its hopes for the future. Write the script for the voiceover of the film. In your writing, create a sense of a positive and realistic appeal.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2014

9093/23/M/J/14

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative Writing 1

Write the opening to a story called Regeneration, in which a neglected part of an urban environment is drastically changed by the plans of developers. In your writing, create a sense of setting and mood.

2

Write a descriptive piece called A Change in the Weather. In your writing, create a sense of contrasting moods to help your reader imagine the scene.

3

Write the opening to a novel called Ambition, in which the central figure is driven by a need to succeed at any cost. In your writing, create a sense of character and motivation.

Section B: Writing for an Audience 4

In response to an article investigating allegations of corruption, two readers send letters to a national newspaper expressing strongly contrasting views on the topic. Write the letters (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of opposing attitudes and viewpoints.

5

The fan magazine of a well-known performer (real or imaginary) with a strong youth following publishes an article aimed at restoring her or his image after some negative publicity. The article aims to remind the audience of the achievements and positive aspects of the star. Write the text for the magazine article. In your writing, create a sense of a positive and enthusiastic attitude.

6

After leaving school, a student decides to travel for a year. At the end of it, the student is invited back by their previous school to give a speech about their experience to other students. Write the speech. In your writing, create a sense of the problems and benefits such an experience might bring.

© UCLES 2015

9093/21/M/J/15

2 Answer one question from Section A and one from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative Writing 1

Write the opening to a story called The Settlers, in which a rural landscape is transformed by the arrival of a group of people. In your writing, create a sense of setting and motivation.

2

Write a descriptive piece called Laughter and Tears. In your writing, create a sense of contrasting moods to help your reader imagine the scene.

3

Write the ending to a novel called Suspicion, in which the central characters have lost trust in each other. In your writing, create a sense of character and motivation.

Section B: Writing for an Audience 4

Two politicians are contesting an election in your region. The first politician wishes to appeal to older voters and the second to younger ones. Both publish their views and policies in leaflets handed out to local people. Write the text of each leaflet (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of opposing attitudes and viewpoints.

5

In response to an injury, a leading sportsperson decides to retire from their sport and makes a television broadcast offering a highly favourable view of their sporting life and achievements. Write the script for the broadcast. In your writing, create a sense of a positive and enthusiastic attitude.

6

A lifestyle magazine invites you to write an article called The New Socialisers. In it you describe how people in your own generation associate with their peers compared with the way your parents’ generation socialises. Write the article. In your writing, create a sense of change and development.

© UCLES 2015

9093/22/M/J/15

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative Writing 1

Write the opening to a story called The Old Town, in which a historic part of a modern environment remains unchanged. In your writing, create a sense of setting and mood.

2

Write a descriptive piece called Winter Turns to Spring. In your writing, create a sense of contrasting moods to help your reader imagine the scene.

3

Write the opening to a novel called Confrontation, in which a character’s beliefs are challenged. In your writing, create a sense of character and motivation.

Section B: Writing for an Audience 4

A chain of health centres advertises on its website, under the slogan World Class Fitness for All. An unhappy client writes to the company responding to the slogan in less than positive terms. Write the letter. In your writing, create a sense of justified disappointment.

5

After negative publicity about the ways in which profitable companies and rich individuals seem to be treated favourably in the day-to-day coverage of a national newspaper, the newspaper publishes an article called The Need for Wealth Creators. Write the article. In your writing, create a sense of a positive and enthusiastic attitude.

6

A travel magazine has invited you to write a feature called Getting Around for Less. This will be aimed at readers who wish to travel around your country on a restricted budget. In it, you describe your experiences and the ways in which you have tried to travel on a limited income. Write the feature. In your writing, create a sense of the problems and the benefits such an experience might bring.

© UCLES 2015

9093/23/M/J/15

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the opening section of a story called New Horizons, in which someone sets off on a long journey. In your writing, create a sense of anticipation and adventure.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (300–450 words each), the first about a person before a job interview, and the second about the same person after the job interview. In your writing, create a sense of the person’s outlook and mood.

3

Write a descriptive piece called The Mountain. In your writing, create a sense of atmosphere, and focus on colours and sounds to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

You have been asked to produce an article for your school magazine on how the ways in which people communicate with each other have changed in your lifetime, and how they may change in the future. Write the article. In your writing, show your interest in these changes.

5

A newspaper recently published an article called Prison – the best solution to crime. Readers were invited to write letters to respond to this article. Write two letters (300–450 words each), one supporting the views in the article, and the other challenging them. In your writing, create a sense of reasoned argument.

6

A resort hotel is producing an online video advertisem*nt of its facilities. The video is aimed at prospective guests who might be interested in staying at the hotel. Write the script for the voiceover of the video. In your writing, create a sense of enthusiasm for the hotel and its facilities.

© UCLES 2016

9093/21/M/J/16

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write a story called At Last, about a person who has waited a very long time for something important to happen. In your writing, create a sense of this person’s mood and how it changes through the story.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (300–450 words each) about a hotel, the first from the perspective of a hotel receptionist, and the second from the perspective of a tourist staying at the hotel. In your writing, create a sense of mood and place.

3

Write a descriptive piece called Sailing. In your writing, focus on colours, sounds and movements to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

In class, you have been discussing whether people should have to pay fees to study after leaving school. Write an article called Post School Education – Free for Everyone? for your student magazine. In your writing, create a sense of the importance of education.

5

You recently attended a new exhibition that opened at a famous museum. Two national newspapers each publish a review of the exhibition. One of the reviews praises the exhibition, and the other criticises it. Write the two reviews (300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of the different experiences.

6

Students at a college have raised a large amount of money for a local charity. The director of the charity is coming to the college to thank the students and speak to them about the charity’s work. Write the text for the director’s speech. In your writing, create a sense of gratitude and the importance of the charity’s work.

© UCLES 2016

9093/22/M/J/16

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write a story which begins with the following sentence: He had only one more chance to succeed, and he knew it. In your writing, create a sense of suspense and anticipation.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (300–450 words each), the first about a tourist resort at its busiest time of year, and the second about the same resort when it is much less busy. In your writing, create a sense of atmosphere and place.

3

Write a descriptive piece called Backstage, about the activities going on behind the scenes while a play is on at a theatre. In your writing, focus on sounds, light and movements to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

You have been asked to give a speech called Technology in Schools to a large group of students at your school. Write the text for the speech. In your writing, create a sense of enthusiasm about how technology may change schools in the future.

5

A national newspaper recently published an article called The Right to Vote at 16? Write two letters (300–450 words each) to the editor of the newspaper, one supporting the right to vote at 16, and the other challenging it. In your writing, create a sense of opposing views.

6

Write the script of a voiceover for a TV news report of a sporting event. The script should cover the outcome of the event, and some discussion of it. In your writing, create a sense of excitement and interest.

© UCLES 2016

9093/23/M/J/16

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing

1

Write a detailed description of a setting which helps to create the atmosphere and themes of a ghost story.

2

Write a piece of prose or drama-script, called ‘Memories’, for radio. The piece should make use of a narrator (and other characters if desired) and use brief flashbacks to show how certain events have shaped the present.

3

Write a short story in which the events are delivered in the form of extracts from a diary. You should try to allow the reader to work out the character’s thoughts and feelings as the story develops.

4

Write a descriptive piece about the effects of two different seasons on the same landscape. You should try to capture the different moods and feelings created.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

Write a review for a magazine in which you give an unfavourable response to a book (either old or recent) you have read. You should try to convince the reader that you have good reasons for disliking the book concerned.

6

Two contrasting newspapers, each with its own style of writing, carry news stories on the same day about the same national event. Write both reports bringing out the contrasts in their language and style. You should briefly mention at the end the type of newspapers you have in mind.

7

‘Turn the other cheek.’ ‘An eye for an eye.’ Which view are you in closer agreement with and why?

8

Do you think that tighter controls are needed over science and technology? You should offer detailed reasons to support your views.

8693/2/O/N/02

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing

1

Write the opening to either a science fiction story or a historical novel. You should try to capture the style and atmosphere of your chosen genre.

2

Write brief openings to two different biographies about the same famous person [either alive or dead]. One of the openings should be highly favourable and the other should be critical. You should try to bring out clear contrasts in the styles of both openings.

3

Write a piece of prose or drama-script, based on the idea of revenge, for radio. The piece should make use of a single voice and reveal the underlying motives for his or her thoughts and actions.

4

Write a short story in which events unfold in extracts from letters or emails between two characters. You should try to convey the characters’ contrasting emotions and attitudes towards the events as they develop.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

‘It’s still a man’s world.’ Do you agree?

6

You have been asked to write a newspaper article which explores different views about a proposed local or national development [real or imaginary] in your country. Your article should include quotations from the key figures involved but maintain a sense of balance.

7

Do you think the media have too much or too little power and influence? You should offer detailed reasons for your views.

8

Given the chance, which particular national or international law would you abolish or create – and why?

8693/8695/2/O/N/03

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing

1

Write two contrasting descriptive pieces [300–450 words each] which portray the same character at the beginning and at the end of the same story or novel. You should bring out differences – such as in the character’s appearance, personality and thoughts.

2

Write a monologue for radio or television performance in which a child recalls a vivid memory or experience. In writing the monologue you should try to capture the child’s viewpoint and expression.

3

Write a complete short story in which coincidence or a twist of fate plays a significant part.

4

Choose one of the following: a story set in the future or one set in an imaginary world. Based on your choice, write the opening of a story which establishes a location and its atmosphere.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

Which historical or living person has inspired you most – and why?

6

Write a magazine article offering advice to teenage readers about preparing and attending interviews for jobs or educational courses. The article needs to persuade the readers in appropriate and imaginative ways that the advice you are offering will be effective.

7

Can revenge ever be justified?

8

You have been asked to contribute to a debate called ‘The Greatest Challenges Facing Our Generation’ in which speakers of your age will put forward their views about national and international matters and priorities. Write the speech you would give.

University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES) which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2004

8693/02/O/N/04

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing

1

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each) about different areas of a particular region or town. In your writing you should bring out differences in mood and atmosphere.

2

Write a complete drama script called ‘You Never Can Tell’. In writing the piece you should explore the ways in which a character is deceived by appearances or events.

3

Think of a taste or smell. Describe the personal experiences and emotions which it brings to mind.

4

Write the opening to a story in which two unusual or eccentric characters meet for the first time.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

‘We now live in a world where different forms of media and technology put our privacy at risk.’ Do you agree?

6

You have been asked to write an article for your local newspaper explaining why facilities for young people need improving in your area. In your article you should describe the nature of the present facilities and the ways in which they can be improved.

7

‘Life is what you – and you alone – make of it.’ What is your view?

8

A big robbery trial is coming to an end in court. Both the prosecution and the defence have one final speech in which to sum up their arguments. Write both speeches (between 300–450 words each).

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace all copyright holders where the publishers (i.e. UCLES) are aware that third-party material has been reproduced. The publishers would be pleased to hear from anyone whose rights they have unwittingly infringed. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2005

8693/02/O/N/05

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative / Descriptive / Imaginative Writing 1

Write a short story called ‘The Immigrant’. In your writing you should try to bring out a sense of mood and place.

2

Using interior monologues (between 300– 450 words each), write a script for radio called ‘The Two Faces’. In the script you should write contrasting sections which reveal different sides of the same personality.

3

Write the opening to a story in which things begin to happen in slow motion.

4

Think of a particular sound. Describe the memories and feelings which it brings to mind.

Section B: Discursive / Argumentative Writing 5

You have been asked to write a magazine article called ‘Coping with Kids’. The article is aimed at parents and offers positive and constructive advice on how they should deal with teenagers in the family. Write the opening of the article.

6

‘Fast food is bad for you and bad for the world.’ Do you agree?

7

You have entered a competition in which you have to make a speech naming three things you would rid the world of and explaining why. Write the speech.

8

‘You should think about the future.’ ‘Live for the moment.’ Which of these views would you agree with more – and why?

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2006

8693/02/O/N/06

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Think of a piece of music you know well. Describe the memories and feelings it brings to mind.

2

Write two diary extracts (between 300– 450 words each) for the same day. One of the extracts is written by a wealthy member of a community; the other is written by a poor person of the same community. Each extract should record the lifestyle and feelings of the writer.

3

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300– 450 words each), one which describes a particular place at the end of a war or natural disaster and one which describes the way it looks after being rebuilt. In your writing you should try to bring out contrasts in mood and atmosphere.

4

Write the opening to a story called ‘The Dream’. In your writing you should try to bring out an atmosphere built on the use of colour and sound.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

You have been invited by your community to speak about the ways in which the local area and its facilities could be made more attractive for residents and tourists. Write your speech, offering clear reasons for your ideas.

6

If you were able to create a new country, what kind of society and laws would you wish to see in place – and why?

7

‘Charity concerts do more harm than good.’ What is your view?

8

You have been invited to contribute to a radio programme in which participants will describe their least favourite cultural experiences. You will have to talk about two of the following, offering reasons for your opinions: the worst book you have read; the worst film or television programme you have watched; the worst piece of art you have seen. Write your talk.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2007

8693/02/O/N/07

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B.

Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition. Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

‘As darkness approached, our mood seemed to change: there was an air of stillness, a sense of unease. Even the landscape seemed different now …’ Continue the story (though you do not need to write a complete one). In your writing you should try to bring out a sense of mystery and suspense.

2

Write a chapter for a novel entitled The Time Traveller. In it you should try to create a sense of a particular time and place.

3

As a travel writer, write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each) which describe a river and its surroundings at two different points of its journey. In your writing you should try to establish differences in setting and atmosphere.

4

Write the opening chapter of a novel called The Hotel. Introduce the reader to three different characters who do not know each other as yet but will do so later. In your writing you should try to establish differences between them and possible reasons why they might meet.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘The “war on terror” has done more harm than good.’ Do you agree?

6

A national newspaper has reported that there is a shortage of teachers in your country. It invites readers to write in, explaining either why teaching is an attractive career or why it is not. Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each) which present each side of the case.

7

Faith? Hope? Love? Which of these do you think is the most important – and why?

8

A national youth organisation is inviting young people to draft ‘A Declaration of Rights for Teenagers’ as part of a competition. Contestants are expected to write in a serious and formal style. Write your entry.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2008

8693/02/O/N/08

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B.

Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition. Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a descriptive piece called ‘The Carnival’. In your writing you should try to bring out a sense of setting and atmosphere.

2

Write the short opening chapter to a novel called The Detective. In your writing you should try to establish a sense of character and mood.

3

Write a monologue called ‘Bittersweet’. In it the speaker should gradually reveal why an apparently pleasant experience or event turned out to have a darker side to it.

4

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each) in which two different narrators describe their thoughts and feelings about an individual they both know. In your writing you should bring out some of the reasons for their different attitudes.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Live for the present.’ ‘You must think about the future.’ With which view are you more in sympathy – and why?

6

You have been invited to write an article called ‘Getting on with Your Parents’ for a magazine aimed at teenagers. In it you offer advice on how to treat their parents at this stage of their lives. Write the article.

7

Which subjects have you enjoyed studying most – and why?

8

Does power corrupt?

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2008

8693/02/O/N/08

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two contrasting descriptive pieces (between 300-450 words each) about different shopping trips. One of them is about an enjoyable experience; the other is about an experience which is not enjoyable. In your writing you should bring out clear contrasts in setting and atmosphere.

2

Write the opening chapter of a novel entitled The Soldier’s Story. In it you should create a sense of mood and character.

3

Write a short story in which the thoughts of a famous figure from the past are revealed at a crucial point in her or his life.

4

“There was rustling, a faint groaning in the distance, an icy air all around … .” Continue the story (although it does not have to be a complete one). In your writing you should bring out a sense of tension and the unknown.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

‘These days there is too much state control.’ ‘We need as much protection by the state as possible.’ What do you think — and why?

6

A luxury hotel, which is proud of its facilities and standards, produces a glossy brochure in which it describes itself. However, a hotel inspector on a secret visit is far from impressed by its claims, and writes a severely critical report. Write the text for the brochure and the text for the report (between 300-450 words each).

7

You have been asked to write an article entitled Life in 2025 for a magazine. In it you describe your vision of the future. Write the article.

8

A national newspaper receives two strongly contrasting letters. The first one carries the heading ‘There has never been a better time to be alive’, and the other one ‘It is a terrifying time to be young.’ Write the two letters (between 300–450 words each).

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2009

8693/21/O/N/09

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B.

Write between 600 and 900 words for each composition. Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a descriptive passage entitled Shadows. In your writing bring out a sense of mystery and suspense.

2

Write the opening chapter of a novel entitled The New World. In your writing create a sense of setting and atmosphere.

3

Write a short story entitled The Confession. In your writing bring out a sense of the narrator’s psychology and motivation.

4

You are completely lost: you are not sure where you are or where you are going. What can you see? What can you hear? How do you feel?

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Peaceful – rather than violent – protest is the most effective means of securing change.’ Do you agree?

6

You have been asked to write an article called ‘Positive Thinking’ for a magazine aimed at older readers. In it you offer guidance and advice for readers on how to enhance their outlook on life. Write the article.

7

‘There is certainly life in outer space.’ ‘Aliens? UFOs? All of it is nonsense.’ What do you think – and why?

8

You have been invited to participate in a public speaking competition at school. You decide to base your speech on the title ‘The Ingredients for Success in Life’. Write the speech.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2009

8693/22/O/N/09

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a descriptive piece called The Lost World. In your writing create an atmosphere of decay and isolation.

2

‘She read the text message on her phone. She paused, gasped, and took a very deep breath…’ Continue the story. In your writing bring out a sense of suspense and tension. (You do not have to complete the story.)

3

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each), one about your most enjoyable experience, and the other about your least enjoyable experience.

4

Write the opening to a short story called A New Romance. In your writing create an unusual setting in which two strangers meet for the first time.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

‘Giving aid to less developed countries does more harm than good.’ What do you think – and why?

6

A magazine publishes two contrasting articles (between 300–450 words each), one called ‘The Future Still Looks Bright’, and the other called ‘It’s Not Going to Get Any Better’. Write the two articles, bringing out clear differences in their viewpoints about the ways in which the world is changing.

7

‘Education provided by the state is good enough for everyone.’ ‘Private (paid for) education is far more beneficial for students than state-funded education.’ Which view are you in closer agreement with – and why?

8

A product which you cannot do without is about to go out of existence: the company which makes it is about to cease its production. Write a letter to the company in which you describe the origin and history of your relationship with the product and – most of all – why it is an essential part of your life.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2010

8693/21/O/N/10

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each), the first about a place before a flood and the second about the same place after a flood. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

2

Write the opening chapter of a novel called Escape from the City, in which a narrator describes her or his experiences of moving to a rural area. In your writing create a sense of the narrator’s outlook and mood.

3

Write a short story called The Curse. In your writing create a sense of mystery and suspense.

4

Imagine you are flying high over a particular landscape. What can you see? What can you hear? What do you feel?

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

‘The United Nations is an ineffective organisation and an expensive luxury. We need to move on.’ What do you think?

6

Write a magazine article called ‘The Ideal Community’ in which you argue that people can build environmentally sound and sustainable communities.

7

‘Good leaders are born, not made.’ Do you agree? You should offer detailed reasons for your point of view.

8

Write two contrasting newspaper articles (between 300–450 words each), one called ‘You Have to Spend Money to Make Money’, and one called ‘Save It For A Rainy Day’.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2010

8693/22/O/N/10

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a descriptive piece called The Workplace. In your writing focus on colours, sounds and textures to help your reader imagine the scene.

2

‘Thunder could be heard rumbling faintly in the distance; rain began to spit from the sky; the wind was beginning to rise. The island lay just before them. They needed shelter and needed it now …’ Continue a short story from this opening. In your writing create a sense of mood and place. (You do not have to complete the story.)

3

Write the opening chapter of a novel called The Outlaw. In your writing create a sense of character and motivation of someone who lives outside the law.

4

Imagine you have been imprisoned for thirty years and are released into a world which has changed enormously. Write a piece which conveys your new sights and sensations in contrast to the world you once knew.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing

5

Does capitalism work? Give detailed reasons to support your views.

6

Two different newspapers cover the same national news event. One of the newspapers reports matters in a formal and restrained style, while the other offers a dramatic and sensationalised approach. Write these two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each).

7

‘Astrology? Fortune telling? Prophecies? They’re all nonsense.’ Do you agree?

8

You are participating in a national speaking competition organised for students by the Ministry of Education. You are asked to deliver a speech to students of your own age, called ‘What My Country Can Do for Me and What I Can Do for My Country’. Write the speech.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2010

8693/23/O/N/10

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a short story called An Unusual Day Out. In your writing create a mood of tension and suspense.

2

Write a descriptive piece called The Airport. In your writing create a detailed sense of people and setting.

3

‘A whole new world opened up before them: they had never been told it was going to be like this …’ Continue the opening to this story (although you do not have to write a complete story). In your writing create a sense of a mysterious future.

4

Write the memories of a narrator who recalls a special and influential event in her/his life. In your writing create a sense of character and place.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Organised religion does more harm than good.’ What do you think?

6

Write two letters (between 300–450 words each) to a national newspaper. One letter argues that tourism is good for your country; the other letter argues that tourism is doing lasting harm to it.

7

Does democracy work? You should give detailed reasons for your views.

8

Which three famous people from history would you invite to have a meal with you – and what would be your reasons for doing so?

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2011

8693/21/O/N/11

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a short story called The Unexpected Visit. In your writing create a mood of tension and suspense.

2

Write a descriptive piece called The Bargain Store. In your writing create a detailed sense of people and setting.

3

‘A tunnel lay open before them: there was only one way they could go now …’ Continue the opening to this story (although you do not have to write a complete story). In your writing create a sense of a mysterious future.

4

Write the thoughts and memories of a narrator who recalls the most exciting time in her or his life. In your writing create a sense of character and place.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Helping someone to end their life should not be allowed in any circ*mstances.’ What do you think – and why?

6

In response to an article in a national newspaper, two readers write letters to the editor. One letter argues that your country needs to invest more in education. The other letter argues that there are more urgent priorities. Write both letters (between 300–450 words each).

7

‘All governments are corrupt in some way or other.’ Do you agree?

8

Write a magazine article called ‘You Are Not Invited’. In it you name the three famous people (alive or dead) you would never wish to meet – and give the reasons why.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2011

8693/22/O/N/11

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write a short story called A Strange Meeting. In your writing create a mood of tension and suspense.

2

Write a descriptive piece called The Concert. In your writing create a detailed sense of people and setting.

3

‘Their eyes scanned the landscape below them: there was only one path they could take …’ Continue the opening to this story (although you do not have to write a complete story). In your writing create a sense of a mysterious future.

4

Write the thoughts and memories of a narrator who recalls feeling betrayed in her/his life. In your writing create a sense of character and place.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

Do you think it is possible for anyone to lead a truly moral life? Give detailed reasons for your views.

6

Write two letters to a national newspaper (between 300–450 words each). One letter argues that your country should have national service (a compulsory period of service in the armed forces); the other letter argues that national service is not necessary.

7

‘Governments should never negotiate with terrorists in any circ*mstances.’ What do you think?

8

Write a magazine article about three celebrities whom you think are overrated, giving reasons why you think this.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2011

8693/23/O/N/11

2

Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two pieces (between 300–450 words each) that contrast with each other: the first about a teacher at the start of her or his career, and the second about the same teacher at the end of this career. The person you write about can be real or imagined. In your writing create a sense of character and motivation.

2

Write the short opening chapter to a novel called A Summer Romance. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

3

Write a descriptive piece called Mist. In your writing create an atmosphere of tension and suspense.

4

Write a short story which ends with these words: ‘… and, slowly, the doors opened, revealing what they had been told all those years ago.’

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘A university should provide an education for students who were born in the same country, rather than students from abroad.’ What do you think – and why?

6

An article has appeared in your local newspaper, arguing that the driving age for teenagers should be substantially raised. Two readers write letters to the newspaper, one agreeing with the article, the other disagreeing. Write the two letters (between 300–450 words each).

7

‘Cosmetic surgery does more harm than good.’ What do you think – and why?

8

Write a magazine article called ‘Living Within Your Means’. In it you offer advice to families on how to manage their income, giving reasons why they should do so.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2012

8693/21/O/N/12

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two pieces (between 300–450 words each) that contrast with each other: the first about a salesperson at the start of her or his career, and the second about the same salesperson at the end of this career. The person you write about can be real or imagined. In your writing create a sense of character and motivation.

2

Write the opening to a short story called A Winter’s Tale. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

3

Write a descriptive piece called Darkness. In your writing create an atmosphere of tension and suspense.

4

Write a short story which ends with these words: ‘… and the recording revealed that the prediction had been right after all.’

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Teachers should be paid according to the results their students get.’ What do you think – and why?

6

An article has appeared in your local newspaper and argues that the age when elderly people are stopped from driving cars should be substantially lowered. Two readers write letters to the newspaper, one agreeing with the article, the other disagreeing. Write the two letters (between 300–450 words each).

7

‘Beauty contests do more harm than good.’ What do you think – and why?

8

Write a magazine article called ‘Surviving the Economic Downturn’. In it you offer guidance to teenagers on how to manage money, giving reasons why they should do so.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2012

8693/22/O/N/12

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write two pieces (between 300–450 words each) that contrast with each other: the first about a member of the army at the start of her or his career, and the second about the same person at the end of this career. The person you write about can be real or imagined. In your writing create a sense of character and motivation.

2

Write the short opening chapter to an autobiography called My Autumn Years. In your writing create a sense of mood and place.

3

Write a descriptive piece called The Light. In your writing create an atmosphere of tension and suspense.

4

Write a short story which ends with these words: ‘… and his words confirmed what they had feared all those years ago.’

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘All students should be made to do community or voluntary work as part of their education.’ What do you think – and why?

6

An article has appeared in your local newspaper which argues that the voting age should be substantially lowered. Two readers write letters to the newspaper, one agreeing with the article, the other disagreeing. Write the two letters (between 300–450 words each).

7

‘Television talent shows do more harm than good.’ What do you think – and why?

8

Write a magazine article called ‘How to Make the Most of Your Time’. In it you offer guidance to teenagers on how to manage their work and leisure time, giving reasons why they should do so.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2012

8693/23/O/N/12

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called All Alone. In your writing create a sense of character and place.

2

Write a short story called Life on the Road in which the narrator describes two contrasting episodes (between 300–450 words each) of her or his experiences.

3

Write a descriptive piece called A Landscape in the Early Morning. In your writing create a sense of mood and setting.

4

An elderly person has died without making a will and has left a valuable painting. Write two contrasting pieces, each by a different relative, in which each one explains why he or she has the right to inherit the painting (between 300–450 words each). In your writing create a sense of contrasting motivations and personalities.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Live for today: there is no point in worrying about tomorrow.’ What do you think – and why?

6

A newspaper invites you to contribute to a regular feature called ‘Don’t Get Me Started!’. In it you express your opinions about everyday things that annoy you. Write the article.

7

‘The media should never have the right to publish details of people’s private lives.’ Do you agree? You should give detailed reasons in your answer.

8

Write a magazine article called ‘Why Don’t You Take Up a Hobby?’. In it you offer suggestions to teenagers on how and why they should try out new activities.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2013

8693/21/O/N/13

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called Lost in the Crowd. In your writing create a sense of character and place.

2

Write a short story called Twenty Four Hours in which the narrator describes two contrasting episodes (between 300–450 words each) of her or his experiences in a single day.

3

Write a descriptive piece called A Country Scene in the Early Evening. In your writing create a sense of mood and setting.

4

Two people disagree over who owns a particular piece of property. Write two contrasting pieces, each by a different narrator, in which each one reveals why she or he is the wronged party in the dispute (between 300–450 words each). In your writing create a sense of contrasting motivations and personalities.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘All members of any society need to respect and obey the law – whatever the situation.’ What do you think – and why?

6

A newspaper invites you to write an article called ‘The Grumpy Person’s Guide to Holidays’. In it you explain why you dislike holidays. Write the article.

7

‘Multi-national companies do more harm than good.’ Do you agree? You should give detailed reasons in your answer.

8

A magazine invites you to write an article aimed at older readers called ‘Making the Most of Your Retirement’. In it you offer them guidance and advice on using their new-found freedom constructively. Write the article.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2013

8693/22/O/N/13

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. You should write between 600 and 900 words for each composition.

Section A: Narrative/Descriptive/Imaginative Writing 1

Write the short opening chapter of a novel called Starting Again. In your writing create a sense of character and place.

2

Write a short story called The Factory in which the narrator describes two contrasting times, one when business is booming, and one when there is an economic downturn (between 300–450 words each).

3

Write a descriptive piece called Midnight. In your writing create a sense of mood and setting.

4

Write two contrasting pieces, one by a low-ranked soldier, the other by a senior officer. Each reveals her or his very different thoughts and feelings about the same army unit in which they serve (between 300–450 words each). In your writing create a sense of contrasting motivations and personalities.

Section B: Discursive/Argumentative Writing 5

‘Space exploration is a complete waste of money.’ What do you think – and why?

6

A newspaper invites you to write an article called ‘The Grumpy Person’s Guide to Sport’. In it you explain why some features of sport upset you. Write the article.

7

‘We should not expect governments to behave in fair and moral ways.’ Do you agree? You should give detailed reasons in your answer.

8

A new school in your area publishes its school brochure aimed at the local community. It promotes the qualities and facilities of the school in an extremely positive way. Write the text for the brochure.

Permission to reproduce items where third-party owned material protected by copyright is included has been sought and cleared where possible. Every reasonable effort has been made by the publisher (UCLES) to trace copyright holders, but if any items requiring clearance have unwittingly been included, the publisher will be pleased to make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. University of Cambridge International Examinations is part of the Cambridge Assessment Group. Cambridge Assessment is the brand name of University of Cambridge Local Examinations Syndicate (UCLES), which is itself a department of the University of Cambridge.

© UCLES 2013

8693/23/O/N/13

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write a descriptive piece called The Theme Park. In your writing, focus on specific sights and sounds to help your reader imagine the scene.

2

Write the opening to a story called The Witness, in which some of the people and events of a major historical incident (real or imaginary) are seen from the viewpoint of a minor character present at the time.

3

‘A set of keys, a passport, a credit card – these were all that remained on the table.’ Continue the short story (although you do not have to bring it to a conclusion). In your writing, create a sense of character and setting.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

A travel magazine invites you to write a feature called My Favourite Walk, in order to encourage tourists to see and learn about the place where you live. Write the text of the article. In your writing, create a sense of interest and enjoyment.

5

Two people with experience of working in education have been invited to contribute to a debate on the theme Are Standards Rising or Falling? Write the text of their speeches (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of opposing attitudes and viewpoints.

6

A website aimed at an older audience publishes a guide called Keeping Up to Date. It offers readers guidance on how to use examples of modern technology (such as mobile phones and smart televisions) and the benefits they offer. Write the text for the guide. In your writing, create a sense of practical advice and enthusiasm.

© UCLES 2014

9093/21/O/N/14

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the opening to a story called Robot World. In your writing, create a detailed sense of a futuristic and mysterious environment.

2

‘The buildings seemed to waken as daylight dawned. Light glinted from windows and gradually the noise of traffic could be heard rumbling in the distance.’ Continue this descriptive piece of writing (although you do not have to bring it to a conclusion). In your writing, focus in detail on colours and sounds to help your reader imagine the scene.

3

Write the opening to a short story in which some of the people and events from a well-known book or film are seen from the perspective of one of the less significant characters in the original piece.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

A magazine aimed at an older audience publishes an article called Keeping in Touch. The article is a guide on the use and the benefits of social networking sites. Write the text for the article. In your writing, create a sense of practical advice and enthusiasm.

5

Write the script for a podcast called Secret Places, aimed at both local residents and new visitors to the area where you live. The script describes unusual and less well-known locations. In your writing, create a sense of interest and enjoyment.

6

A company director and a factory worker have been invited to contribute to a debate on the theme The Rights Workers Should Have. Write the text of their speeches (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of opposing attitudes and viewpoints.

© UCLES 2014

9093/22/O/N/14

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the opening to a story called The Witness, in which a character has to come to terms with what she or he has experienced. In your writing, create a sense of character and motivation.

2

A short story ends with these words: ‘Spring had arrived: the sun seemed to offer the promise of a bright and glorious future.’ Write the rest of the story which occurs before these words. In your writing, create a sense of setting and mood.

3

Write a descriptive piece called The Factory. In your writing, focus on sounds, colours and textures to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

Write the script for a voiceover of a promotional film called Reasons to Invest Here, aimed at overseas businesses. In your writing, create a sense of the advantages that could come with investment in your country.

5

Two speakers have been invited to contribute to a debate on the theme Scientific Research Should Have Its Limits. Write the text of their speeches (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of differing attitudes and viewpoints.

6

A travel website aimed at young people publishes an article called Safe and Sound. The article offers guidance and advice to young people wishing to travel abroad. Write the text for the article. In your writing, create a sense of the pleasures and difficulties young travellers might encounter.

© UCLES 2014

9093/23/O/N/14

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative Writing 1

Write the opening to a story called The Carnival. In your writing, create the impression of a range of colours and sounds.

2

Write a descriptive piece called Sunday Morning. In your writing, create a sense of time and place.

3

Write an autobiographical piece called Bitterness, in which the narrator reflects on experiences he or she has not yet come to terms with. In your writing, create a sense of mood and character.

Section B: Writing for an Audience 4

A student council has been established in a school and two students with contrasting views wish to stand for election. Each one delivers a speech outlining to other students why they should be elected. Write the text of each speech (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of the candidates’ different outlooks and attitudes.

5

An animal welfare charity wishes to recruit new members. It makes a short promotional film to describe its work and the issues it campaigns for. Write the script for the voiceover of the film. In your writing, create a sense of a serious and active organisation.

6

A radio station aimed at a teenage audience invites you to write a script for a ‘youth culture’ programme. The script suggests which aspects of present youth culture will last – and which will not. Write the script. In your writing, create a sense of enthusiastic and reasoned argument.

© UCLES 2015

9093/21/O/N/15

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the opening to a story called The Market. In your writing, create the impression of a range of colours and sounds.

2

Write a descriptive piece called From Dusk Till Dawn. In your writing, create a sense of place and passing time.

3

Write an autobiographical piece called Contentment, in which a narrator reflects on the experiences which have allowed her or him to reach such a state of mind. In your writing, create a sense of mood and character.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

An employer is interested in appointing a candidate to an important role in her company. She requests a letter of support from each of the applicant’s last two employers. The responses offer two very contrasting views about the candidate. Write the text of each reference (between 300– 450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of different experiences and attitudes.

5

A campaign group which wishes to tackle issues of poverty establishes a newsletter. The newsletter describes issues which the organisation wishes to address, and the reasons why. Write the text for the newsletter. In your writing, create a sense of a serious and active organisation.

6

A large building company publishes a brochure outlining its plans for the substantial redevelopment of a large, disused piece of land in your area. The company hopes to persuade local residents it will create employment and housing opportunities. Write the text for the brochure. In your writing, create a positive and persuasive outlook.

© UCLES 2015

9093/22/O/N/15

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative Writing 1

Write the opening to a story called The Gathering. In your writing, create a sense of mystery and suspense.

2

Write a descriptive piece called From Sunrise to Sunset. In your writing, create a sense of place and passing time.

3

Write an autobiographical piece called Understanding, in which the narrator comes to terms with a particular situation. In your writing, create a sense of mood and character.

Section B: Writing for an Audience 4

A national debate is taking place about the impact of tourism in your country. Two politicians make televised speeches on the issue, one in support of tourism and one focusing on the negative impact of tourism. Write the scripts for the two speeches (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of the politicians’ different outlooks and attitudes.

5

An environmental campaign group, which wishes to attract younger members, launches a new newsletter. The newsletter describes the issues which the organisation intends to address, and the reasons why. Write the text for the newsletter. In your writing, create a sense of a caring and active organisation.

6

An international company wishes to create a housing and leisure development in a local area of outstanding beauty. The local newspaper publishes contrasting letters from two local residents – one in favour of the scheme, and one against. Write the text of each letter (between 300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of differing attitudes and viewpoints.

© UCLES 2015

9093/23/O/N/15

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write a story which begins with the following sentence: As soon as the train began to move away, I knew I had made a big mistake. In your writing, create a sense of drama and suspense.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (300–450 words each), the first about having a meal at a restaurant, and the second about working in the kitchen of the same restaurant on the same evening. In your writing, create a sense of mood and place.

3

Write a descriptive piece called The Storm. In your writing, focus on sounds, light and movements to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

A national magazine is planning an edition about shopping. You have been asked to write an article called How Shopping has Changed, about how people’s shopping habits have changed in the past twenty years. Write the article. In your writing, consider whether you feel these changes have been good or bad.

5

Some students from your school recently spent a week at a school in another place, as part of an exchange visit. Write two contrasting reviews of this experience (300–450 words each), which will be published in your school magazine. One of the reviews focuses on the success of the visit, and in the other review, the writer feels that the experience was less useful. In your writing, create a sense of the different experiences.

6

The director of a large company is about to retire. They will give a speech to the company employees on their last day at work about the challenges of the past and their hopes for the company’s future. Write the text of the speech. In your writing, create a sense of the mood and emotions of the occasion.

© UCLES 2016

9093/21/O/N/16

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the opening to a story called Missing, in which a person suddenly disappears. In your writing, create a sense of suspense and mystery.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (300–450 words each), the first about a town in the present day, and the second about the same town in fifty years’ time. In your writing, create a sense of place and atmosphere.

3

Write a descriptive piece called The View from the Window. In your writing, focus on colours and light to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

Write a magazine article called Travelling for the First Time. The article is aimed at older teenagers who are going to travel away from home and family for the first time. In your writing, offer advice and guidance on how to survive away from your family.

5

Two speakers are going to take part in a debate on school leaving age. One of the speakers argues that students should be allowed to leave school at 16; the other speaker believes all students should have to stay in education until at least 21. Write the text of their speeches (300–450 words each). In your writing, create a sense of their opposing attitudes and viewpoints.

6

Write the script of a voiceover for a TV documentary called It’s Our Planet. The programme is aimed at teenagers, and is about the importance of looking after the environment we live in. In your writing, create a sense of passion and urgency.

© UCLES 2016

9093/22/O/N/16

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the ending of a story called A Narrow Escape, in which someone is in great danger but manages to avoid disaster. In your writing, create a sense of suspense and drama.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (300–450 words each), the first about a granddaughter, written by her grandmother, and the second about the grandmother, written by her granddaughter. In your writing, create a sense of their different views of the world.

3

Write a descriptive piece called The Submarine. In your writing, focus on sounds, space and movements to help your reader imagine the scene.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

A nurse has been invited to give a talk to a group of students about her or his work, as part of a careers advice programme. Write the text for the talk. In your writing, create a sense of the challenges and rewards that this type of work can bring.

5

A newspaper recently published an article called There’s No Such Thing as Global Warming. Readers were invited to write letters to respond to this article. Write two contrasting letters (300–450 words each), one supporting the views in the article, and the other challenging them.

6

A national television company has planned a documentary called Technology is Changing our Lives, about the benefits and drawbacks of having so much technology around us. Write the script for the voiceover of the documentary. In your writing, create a sense of enthusiasm as well as caution.

© UCLES 2016

9093/23/O/N/16

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write between 600–900 words for each question.

Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write a descriptive piece called Looking for a Bargain, in which the narrator describes their experience of a shopping expedition. In your writing, focus on the sounds and atmosphere of the experience.

2

Write a story called I Never Expected That. In your writing, focus on character and mood.

3

Write two contrasting pieces (between 300–450 words each), the first about a sports team before an important game, and the second about the same team after the game. In your writing, focus on the differing atmospheres.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

The editor of your local newspaper wants to run a series of pieces about people growing their own food and asks you to write an article called Growing, not Shopping. Write the text for the article. In your writing, create a sense of an enthusiastic attitude.

5

A well known zoo is being expanded and an advertising company are going to produce a promotional film, which aims to target younger visitors. Write the script for the voiceover of the film. In your writing, create a balance between having fun and learning about animals.

6

Your school magazine asks you to write an article that raises the profile of extra-curricular activities, such as sports or hobby clubs, within the school. Write the article. In your writing, create a sense of the importance of making the most of your time at school.

© UCLES 2016

9093/22/F/M/16

2 Answer one question from Section A and one question from Section B. All questions carry equal marks. You should write 600–900 words for each question. Section A: Imaginative writing 1

Write the opening to a story which begins with the following sentence: The mist gradually lifted, revealing an incredible sight. In your writing, create a sense of drama and suspense.

2

Write two contrasting pieces (300–450 words each) about a child’s birthday party, the first from the perspective of the child, and the second from the perspective of the child’s parent. In your writing, create a sense of mood and place.

3

Write a descriptive piece called Waiting. In your writing, create a sense of atmosphere, and focus on describing the feelings of the characters to help your reader imagine the situation.

Section B: Writing for an audience 4

In class, you have been discussing whether it is necessary to have lots of money to be able to enjoy yourself. Write an article for your school magazine called Who Needs Money? In your writing, offer tips and suggestions on interesting ways to have a good social life without having to spend much money.

5

Two speakers are going to take part in a public debate on the idea of the world sharing one common language. One of the speakers agrees with the idea, and the other speaker opposes it. Write the texts they prepare for their speeches (300–450 words each).

6

Write the script of a voiceover for a national TV report about an important foreign visitor who recently came to your country. The voiceover should cover some footage of the actual visit, and some comment upon it afterwards. In your writing, create a sense of atmosphere and importance.

© UCLES 2017

9093/22/F/M/17

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