22 original exam-style questions - 18 pages of questions with a full mark scheme - free printable PDF.
Source written for Revision Library (original, copyright-free). Fictional narrative created for 11+ vocabulary-in-context practice.
Amara had cycled past the gates of Bramwell Hall a hundred times without ever noticing the glasshouse. It stood behind a screen of overgrown laurel, its iron frame rusted to the colour of dried blood, its hundreds of small panes either missing or clouded with grime. Today, for reasons she could not quite explain, she propped her bicycle against the wall and pushed through a gap in the hedge.
The door hung from a single hinge, and it groaned in protest as she eased it open. Inside, the air was warm and green-smelling, thick with the scent of leaf mould and rain that had long since evaporated. Ferns had colonised the flagstones, their fronds unfurling in tentative spirals towards the light. A vine, ancient and sinewy, had wound itself around an ornate iron pillar and now hung in loops from the roof, as though the whole building were slowly being reclaimed by the garden it had once been built to display.
Amara moved deeper into the glasshouse, her footsteps muffled by drifts of fallen leaves. In the far corner, half hidden beneath a tangle of ivy, she spotted a wooden potting bench. Its surface was scarred and pitted, but someone had once tended it with meticulous care: brass labels, now dulled to a soft green, were still pinned in careful rows beside empty terracotta pots. A pair of secateurs lay where they had been set down, their blades brittle with rust, as though the gardener had simply stepped away for a moment and never returned.
She reached out and, with fingers that trembled slightly, lifted a small leather-bound notebook from beneath the bench. Its cover was cracked and its pages foxed with damp, yet when she opened it, careful copperplate handwriting still marched across the paper in orderly lines. It was a planting record, dated some seventy years earlier, noting the germination of orchids, the pruning of a fig tree, the coaxing of a stubborn camellia into its first bloom. The final entry, written in a hand that had grown shaky and irregular, simply read: Frost forecast. Bring in the tender ones tonight.
Amara sat back on her heels, the notebook resting in her lap. Somewhere above her, a bird had found its way in through a broken pane and was hopping along a rafter, unbothered by her presence. The glasshouse, forlorn as it looked from the lane, suddenly felt less like a ruin and more like a room that was simply waiting, patiently, for someone to notice it again. She made a resolute decision there and then: she would come back tomorrow, and the day after that, until she had worked out exactly what this strange, verdant, forgotten place deserved to become next.