12 original exam-style questions - 6 pages of questions with a full mark scheme - free printable PDF.
Source written for Revision Library (original, copyright-free). All five texts below (Sources A to E) were written specifically for this worksheet and have not been previously published. They are free for educational reproduction and study; not to be redistributed for commercial purposes. None of these texts is extracted from, paraphrased from, or based on any published or in-copyright work.
SOURCE A: POEM - 'Nightfall Over the Sidings'
1 The engines have gone quiet for the night,
2 and steam sits low along the sidings, pale
3 as breath held back. A single lamp lets fall
4 its circle on the gravel, thin and tired.
5 Somewhere a shunter's whistle, far and small,
6 folds itself into the dark like a word
7 half-spoken. Rust has eaten at the rails
8 in patches, orange as a healing wound.
9 I stand where the platform ends, where the town
10 gives up its edges to the goods yard's hush,
11 and watch the last light climb the water tower
12 the way a hand might climb a sleeping arm.
13 Nothing here is finished. Nothing here
14 is new. The sidings keep their old freight waiting,
15 carriages coupled to a line that goes
16 nowhere tonight, and everywhere tomorrow.
SOURCE B: POEM - 'The Allotment'
1 She kneels among the beanpoles, knees gone stiff,
2 and turns the soil the way she's always done -
3 by feel, not sight, the fork remembering
4 what forty years of Saturdays have taught it.
5 The runner beans have climbed past where she reaches;
6 she leaves the topmost pods for wood pigeons,
7 calls it a fair exchange, though no one's asked her.
8 The shed still holds her husband's boots, size ten,
9 too good, she says, to throw away just yet.
10 Marrow and rhubarb, onions set in rows
11 as straight as anything she means to keep.
12 Some plots nearby have gone to nettle now,
13 their owners moved on, or simply moved away,
14 but hers stays turned, stays sown, stays spoken for -
15 a small square kept against the creeping dark
16 the way a name is kept, repeated, said.
SOURCE C: POEM - 'Machinery'
1 Something in the walls keeps time -
2 not a clock, not quite a pulse,
3 but a low mechanical breathing
4 that the house has learned to wear
5 like a second skin it forgets it's wearing.
6 We built it to keep us warm.
7 We did not ask what it would keep,
8 only that it should keep. Now
9 it hums beneath the floorboards
10 at three, at four, at the hour
11 no one names because no one's awake to name it,
12 and I have started to wonder
13 whether the house runs us
14 or we the house, whether the warmth
15 we bought was ever really ours
16 to switch off, given how the switch
17 sits so far from the hand
18 that first imagined needing it.
SOURCE D: PROSE EXTRACT - 'The Long Corridor'
Paragraph 1: The corridor smelled of the same disinfectant it always smelled of, a smell Marion had come to associate less with hospitals than with waiting itself, as though someone, somewhere, bottled the scent and pumped it through vents marked PATIENCE. She had counted the tiles eleven times. Eleven times fourteen came to a number she kept losing at the edges.
Paragraph 2: Her brother sat two chairs down, elbows on knees, phone face down on his thigh as if it might go off and demand something of him he wasn't ready to give. Neither of them had said much since the nurse with the kind, tired eyes had gone through the double doors an hour ago, promising news 'as soon as there is any,' a sentence built, Marion thought, entirely out of soft materials, designed to hold no weight at all.
Paragraph 3: A trolley rattled past. Somewhere a machine beeped twice and stopped, and nobody in the corridor looked up, because everybody in the corridor had learned, in the space of that single afternoon, the difference between a beep that meant something and a beep that didn't, though nobody could have said how.
Paragraph 4: 'She'll be fine,' Liam said, not for the first time, and not, Marion understood, because he believed it more than she did, but because saying it kept a shape in the air between them that silence would otherwise have taken.
Paragraph 5: Marion nodded. She was watching the doors. She had noticed, the way you notice things you will remember for years without meaning to, that the doors had a small round window at head height, reinforced with wire mesh, and that the wire mesh made a grid over whatever moved beyond it, breaking every shape into small, manageable squares.
Paragraph 6: If she looked at the doors long enough, she thought, she could keep whatever was coming small. Keep it in squares. Keep it manageable.
Paragraph 7: The doors did not open.
Paragraph 8: Eleven times fourteen, she thought again, and this time let the number go.
SOURCE E: PROSE EXTRACT - 'Low Tide'
Paragraph 1: The town had been built, my grandmother used to say, by people who trusted the sea to stay where it was put, and had been slowly proved wrong ever since. By the time I knew it, half the front was boarded, the amusement arcade kept one arm of lights working out of six, and the pier stopped a good thirty feet short of where it used to reach, fenced off behind a sign that had lost most of its red paint and all of its urgency.
Paragraph 2: We went every August regardless. My mother would say it was tradition, though I think now she meant it was cheap, and that the two things had simply grown to look alike to her over the years.
Paragraph 3: I remember the tide going out further than seemed sensible, uncovering a wide brown apron of sand studded with black stones, and my grandmother walking further onto it than any of us, her shoes in her hand, calling back over her shoulder that the sea always came back, that it had never once forgotten to, whatever else it forgot.
Paragraph 4: She died the winter I turned twelve, and we did not go back to that town for many years.
Paragraph 5: When I did return, a grown woman with a car of my own and a daughter asleep in the back seat, I found the arcade gone entirely, the pier reduced to a stub the council had finally made safe by removing it, and the sand, when the tide pulled away from it, exactly as brown and stone-studded as I remembered, as though the town had lost everything it was permitted to lose and had simply stopped there, holding what remained.
Paragraph 6: I did not tell my daughter any of this. I let her run ahead of me onto the sand, the way my grandmother once had, and I watched the tide, and I waited, the way you wait for a sentence you already know the end of, to see whether it would come back.