Free Eduqas GCSE English Language (C700) Exam Questions and Answers

The First Wife SECTION A: 40 marks Read carefully the passage below. The First Wife At his niece’s wedding Clive Harper fell in love again with his ex-wife, Mary. At least that was how it felt. There she was, not seen for many a year, and he found himself in a turmoil. She was looking older, greyer but undeniably attractive. A tall woman in a stylish light green suit, an expensive silk scarf knotted at her neck. Elegant shoes. Clive noticed this sort of thing about a woman. A warm smile on her face as she talked to an old aunt. Clive was overcome with a quite desperate sense of loss. He quite forgot that he had left her, all those years ago, when he suddenly became aware that she had begun to look old. He was forty when he left Mary and moved in with Colette, who was twenty-four and French, an irresistible combination. Of course, Mary had been badly hurt. He could see that now. The arrangement with Colette had not lasted long. Indeed he could barely remember her now. She had had many successors over the years. He had to have that constant thrill of a new interest – the anticipation of a secret meeting, the flattery of a new face turned attentively to his. He was terrified of ageing. It had begun in his twenties when he realised to his dismay there were people younger than himself. The thought filled him with nausea and self-pity. His thirtieth birthday had smashed into him like a rock in a tranquil sea. He found himself looking in the mirror more often. He watched the faces of people his age to see how he was doing by comparison. Mary had never understood his fits of terror. She had made light of his panic. ‘Look,’ she had said, ‘you’re getting older. So am I, so is everyone.’ She had no conception of the cold fear in his stomach. No, this can’t be happening, he thought. Not to me. To other people maybe. Not to me. And now he was fifty-nine. Sometimes, in dark moments, the awful fact reared up and sent him reeling. But he had learned over the years how to cope. Activity was the thing. Fill the days, the evenings. Travel. Go out. Be with others. Talk, laugh. He made sure to surround himself with younger people. When his friends showed a sign of becoming a touch decrepit, he slid away from them. And, of course, his present wife, Susan, was not yet forty. And now here was Mary, his first wife. He thought with a tingle of pleasure how she would react when she saw him. He was glad he had worn his rather dashing new shirt and that Susan had woken with symptoms of flu and had decided to cry off the wedding. What luck. He expected that by now Mary would be wondering if he was here, would be casting glances around the room. She did not. She continued with her patient attention to the aunt, laughing with her in a way that had Clive in a sudden fit of jealousy. He tried to remember what news of her had reached him over the years. She had never remarried. No rings on her hands. She lived alone and worked in hospital administration, a career on which she embarked after their marriage broke up. He had behaved badly – he would be the first to accept that. But now was his chance – not to make amends but to initiate a new, rewarding relationship. That was what he needed. It need not affect his marriage in any way. It could be tactfully concealed from Susan. He was amazed at the excitement the sight of Mary had created in him. The aunt was distracted by other guests and Mary was alone. Clive arrived at her side. ‘Well…it’s wonderful to see you, Mary.’ She turned her head at the sound of his voice. There was no surprise on her face. ‘Hello, Clive,’ she said in a flat tone. ‘Well!’ he said again. He put everything into the look he gave her. His look told her that he admired her appearance, that he had noticed the pretty brooch on her jacket and her unusual silver earrings, that he had a thousand things to say to her. He knew such looks could be unsettling and he waited for her to look unsettled. She was silent for a moment, apparently studying him. Then she said, ‘I gather poor Susan’s got flu.’ This was not the direction in which he wanted them to go. He dealt quickly with Susan’s flu. He asked where Mary was living, and was told. He asked about her work, and was given a straightforward account of what she did. She seemed more confident than the Mary he remembered. She was quite high-powered, he realised. Like her dress and manner, this authority was undoubtedly part of her appeal. A woman of her time, he thought approvingly. He said something about his present life and gazed at her again with unashamed admiration. She seemed a touch restless. She glanced over his shoulder and sipped at her drink. She was affected by him, no doubt about that, he thought. Now was the time to make a direct approach. ‘Could we perhaps…meet?’ he said. She hesitated and now that wretched aunt was heading for them. Mary seemed about to speak, hesitated again. And then the aunt was there, chuntering on. Clive touched Mary’s arm and said, ‘I’ll call soon’ as he left them. He could understand her hesitation. She didn’t know how to respond. He would wait a couple of days and contact her. The groundwork had been done. The foundations had been laid. He wrote her a letter and told her how deeply he had been moved by seeing her. He hinted at years of regret. He implied a void in his life. He included one or two references to their life together. He concluded by proposing lunch in three days’ time. He named a restaurant. If he did not hear from her he would assume that this was acceptable and would look forward with immense pleasure to seeing her again. He arrived slightly late at the restaurant and looked around anxiously. No sight of her but then the waiter said, ‘A lady came earlier, sir. She left you this note.’ Clive took the envelope, feeling a trickle of fear. He sat down, pulled out a single sheet of paper and began to read. Dear Clive, No, thank you. Not lunch and not anything else. I wonder what makes you think I would wish to? Well, empathy never was your strong point. Your letter implied a certain emptiness, a state of mind with which I have been deeply familiar. However, I am not the right person to offer comfort. I’m sure you will find someone more sympathetic, unless you have entirely lost your touch. Thank you for the compliments – most acceptable to a woman of my age. You haven’t changed much yourself, though more I fear than you would like. The signs of a desperate struggle against time are plainly visible. You seem anxious to remind me of the old days, so I’m sure you won’t mind if I make a point or two. I wouldn’t tint the grey bits in your hair if I were you. It shows in a strong light. Also, the pink shirt is unwise in a man of your age and figure. I do hope Susan’s flu is better. Poor thing. Yours, Mary ‘Would you care for a drink, sir?’ the waiter was saying. In this story, the narrator describes her relationship with her mother, and her sister, Lisa. A World of Her Own My sister Lisa is an artist. She is not like other people. Lisa is two years younger than I am, and we knew quite early on that she was artistic, partly because she could always draw so nicely, but also because of the way she behaved. “She lives in a world of her own,” my mother used to say. She was always the difficult one, always having tantrums and getting upset about one thing and another, but once mother realised about her being artistic she made allowances. We all did. The art teacher at school said she had real talent and mother was thrilled to bits. She’d always admired creative people. She’d have loved to be able to write or paint herself but having Lisa turn out that way was the next best thing, or better, even, perhaps. When Lisa was fifteen, mother went to work in Luigi’s Delicatessen, behind the counter, to save up so there would be a bit extra for Lisa when she went to art school. It worried me rather, mother going out to work like that. She’s had asthma for years now, and besides she felt awkward, serving in a shop. But the trouble is, she’s not qualified at anything and in any case, as she said, a delicatessen isn’t like an ordinary shop or a supermarket. I was at college by then, doing my teaching qualification. Lisa went to one of the London art schools, and came back at the end of her first term looking as weird as anything. You’d hardly have known her, her hair dyed red and wearing black clothes with pop art stuck on and I don’t know what. It was just as well mother had saved up, because it all turned out much more expensive than we’d thought. There was so much she had to do, like going to plays and things, and of course she needed smarter clothes, and more of them, and then the next year she had to travel all summer to see great paintings and architecture. She was away for months and when she came back she had changed completely all over again – her hair was blonde and frizzed out, and she was wearing a lot of leather things, very expensive boots up to her thighs and long suede coats. She did come home for Christmas and sometimes she was chatty and made everybody laugh and other times she was bad-tempered and moody but, as mother said, she’d always been like that from a little girl and of course you had to expect it, with her artistic temperament. Lisa finished at her art college, and got whatever qualification they get, and then couldn’t find a job. At least she didn’t want any of the jobs she could have got, like jobs on magazines or for publishers or that kind of thing. “And can you blame her,” said mother. “I mean, what a waste of her talents, it’s ridiculous, all that time she’s spent developing herself and then they expect her to be tied down to some nine-to-five job like everyone else!” I got my teaching qualification and started teaching and not long after that I married Jim, whom I’d met at college, and we had the children quite soon because I thought I’d go back to work when they were at school. I thought my life seemed to be following a clear path. Lisa had come to live at home and she was fed up. Mother gave up her big bedroom and had the builders put a skylight in and made it into a studio for Lisa with a bare, polished floor and a big new easel that mother got by selling that silver tea set that was a wedding present and she said she never liked anyway. But then it turned out Lisa didn’t do that kind of painting, but funny things to do with bits of material all glued together. And when she did paint she would be squatting on the floor, or lying on her stomach on the sofa. I couldn’t make head or tail of the art Lisa did. I mean, I just didn’t know if it was any good or not. But then, I wouldn’t, would I? I’m not experienced in things like that. Lisa mooched about at home for months and, sadly, actually did less and less painting. Then Bella Sims arrived and opened this new gallery in town. Bella’s place was real art, you could see that at once – lots of pictures hung far apart, pottery vases so expensive they didn’t have a price on them. Lisa took along some of her things one day and believe it or not Bella liked them and put three of them in her next exhibition. Mother and I were so thrilled we cried when Lisa first told us. Bella Sims was about fifty, one of those people with a loud, posh voice and hair that’s just been done at the hairdresser and expensive jewellery. She scared the wits out of me, though mother kept saying what a marvellous person she was. I didn’t enjoy the party for the opening of the exhibition and nobody talked to us much. But Lisa had a good time and she met Melvyn at that party. Melvyn was Bella’s son. He taught design. That meant he was creative, though not a real artist like Lisa. He fell for her heavily and quite soon they said they were getting married. We were all pleased, because Melvyn was nice – you’d never have guessed he was Bella’s son – and we didn’t realise till later that it was because Francesca was on the way. Mother was a bit upset about that but actually she worried more about Lisa not being able to paint once the baby was born. Actually, it didn’t work out that way. Lisa soon got into the habit of leaving Francesca with mother or me. She had to go to London a lot to keep in touch with her friends and try to find openings for her work. I had my two, of course, so, as she said, an extra one didn’t make much difference. It did get more of a strain the next year though after she had Jason. Four children is quite a lot to keep an eye on. And so it went on. In the years that followed, Lisa had a series of relationships and more children. She moved to London and then there was Wales with a Polish sculptor and France with the tapestry people, London again and the cottage in Sussex that someone lent her… The last time she was here I suddenly realised she is nearly forty. It doesn’t seem right; she is a person that things have always been in front of, somehow, not behind. Mother and I cleaned out Lisa’s old studio the other day. I found some really nice drawings of things Lisa did at school. Mother put them aside and said she might have them framed and hang them in the hall. Holding them, she said, “With her temperament, I suppose you could not expect her to settle but at least she has always been free to express herself, which is the important thing”. When I did not answer, she said, “Isn’t it, dear?” I said, “Yes. Yes, I think so mother”. Penelope Lively This story is set in Botswana, a country in Africa. 1 Mma Ramotswe had set up her detective agency with the money from the sale of her father’s cattle. He had owned a big herd and had no other children so every single animal went to her when he was no longer able to take care of them. ‘I want you to have your own business,’ he said. She held her father’s hand and looked into the eyes of the man she loved beyond all others and who had worked and saved to make life good for her. After a slow start, she was surprised to find that her services as a private detective were in considerable demand. In almost every case she came up with some information for the client. When she could not, she did not charge a fee, which meant that everyone was happy. 10 When Happy Bapetsi came in, Mma Ramotswe gave her some tea, as she always did with nervous clients, and watched her closely. Mma Ramotswe confidently believed that everything you wanted to know about a person was written in the face. Now this Happy Bapetsi was intelligent and she also had few worries. This was shown by the fact she had few lines on her face. So it was man trouble, Mma Ramotswe thought. Some man had turned up and spoilt everything, destroying her happiness with his bad behaviour. ‘I used to have a happy life,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘A very happy life. Then this thing happened, and I can’t say that anymore. Let me tell you a little about myself. I was brought up by my mother. My mother told me my Daddy went away to work when I was a little baby and never came back. My mother did not mind a great deal because she never really liked him.’ 20 She went on, ‘I did well at school and discovered that I could do arithmetic rather well. Eventually I got a job in a bank and it was simple for me. I could look at whole sheets of figures and understand them immediately. I got promotion after promotion but I don’t think I can go further because all the men are worried that I’ll make them look stupid. But I don’t mind. I get good pay and I have a nice house with four rooms. I finish work by three in the afternoon and then I go shopping.’ Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘You have done well.’ ‘I was very happy,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘But then this thing happened. My Daddy arrived at the house.’ Mma drew in her breath. She had expected a boyfriend problem but fathers were a different matter altogether. ‘He just knocked on the door,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘It was a Saturday afternoon and I was resting when I heard him knocking. I went to the door and there was this man, about sixty or so, standing there with his hat in his hands. He told me that he was my Daddy and that he had been living abroad for a long time but now he was back in Botswana. And had come to see me. I almost fainted. He then asked if he could stay in one of the spare rooms.’ She paused. ‘That was three months ago. Since then, he has been living in that room and I have been doing all the work for him. All he does is sit in his chair and tell me what to do for him next.’ ‘Many men are like that,’ interrupted Mma Ramotswe. 40 Happy Bapetsi nodded. ‘This one is especially like that and I have been getting very tired of running after him. I would not resent this but I do not think he is my real Daddy. I think he is an impostor and is just looking for a good retirement home.’ Mma Ramotswe just stared in astonishment. ‘Can you help me? Can you find out if this man is my real Daddy?’ said Happy Bapetsi with desperation in her voice. Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. ‘I’ll find out,’ she said. ‘It may take a day or two but I’ll find out.’ The next day, Mma Ramotswe put her plan into action. She borrowed a nurse’s uniform and set off to Happy Bapetsi’s house. As she neared the house, she increased her speed so that she would arrive in a cloud of dust. The Daddy was sitting in his chair outside the front door and he sat up straight when he saw Mma Ramotswe run up to the house. ‘Are you Happy Bapetsi’s Daddy?’ she asked, pretending to be out of breath. ‘Yes,’ he said proudly. ‘I’m sorry to say there has been an accident. Happy was run over and has lost a lot of blood. She needs a big operation.’ The Daddy let out a wail. ‘My daughter! My baby Happy!’ A good actor, thought Mma Ramotswe. ‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘It is very sad. And they need lots of blood to make up for what she has lost.’ The Daddy frowned. ‘They must give her that blood. We can pay.’ ‘It’s not the money,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘We must have blood from her family and you’re the only one she has.’ The Daddy sat down heavily. ‘I’m an old man,’ he said. Mma Ramotswe sensed it would work. This man was an impostor. ‘That is why we are asking you. She needs so much blood. They will have to take about half your blood. And that is very dangerous for you. You could die.’ The Daddy’s mouth fell open. ‘Die?’ ‘Yes,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘But you are her father and we know that you would do this for your daughter. The doctor is waiting.’ Mma Ramotswe took his wrist and tugged him towards the van. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to.’ ‘You must,’ said Mma Ramotswe. The Daddy shook his head. ‘No,’ he said faintly. ‘I won’t. You see, I’m not really her Daddy. There has been a mistake.’ Mma Ramotswe let go of his wrist. Then, arms folded, she stood before him and addressed him directly. ‘So you are not the Daddy. Then what are you doing sitting in that chair and eating her food? Have you heard what the law says about people like you?’ The Daddy looked at the ground and shook his head. ‘Well,’ said Mma Ramotswe firmly. ‘You go inside that house and get your things. You have five minutes. Then I am going to take you to the bus station.’ The Daddy just stood there, looking miserable. ‘Inside!’ she ordered. ‘Four minutes left now!’ Alexander McCall Smith The story in the separate Resource Material is told by Ruby Lennox, who as a young girl lived above the pet shop run by her parents. She has an older sister called Patricia. Read lines 1-7. List five things you learn about Ruby Lennox in these lines.

Type your answer, then reveal.

The First Wife SECTION A: 40 marks Read carefully the passage below. The First Wife At his niece’s wedding Clive Harper fell in love again with his ex-wife, Mary. At least that was how it felt. There she was, not seen for many a year, and he found himself in a turmoil. She was looking older, greyer but undeniably attractive. A tall woman in a stylish light green suit, an expensive silk scarf knotted at her neck. Elegant shoes. Clive noticed this sort of thing about a woman. A warm smile on her face as she talked to an old aunt. Clive was overcome with a quite desperate sense of loss. He quite forgot that he had left her, all those years ago, when he suddenly became aware that she had begun to look old. He was forty when he left Mary and moved in with Colette, who was twenty-four and French, an irresistible combination. Of course, Mary had been badly hurt. He could see that now. The arrangement with Colette had not lasted long. Indeed he could barely remember her now. She had had many successors over the years. He had to have that constant thrill of a new interest – the anticipation of a secret meeting, the flattery of a new face turned attentively to his. He was terrified of ageing. It had begun in his twenties when he realised to his dismay there were people younger than himself. The thought filled him with nausea and self-pity. His thirtieth birthday had smashed into him like a rock in a tranquil sea. He found himself looking in the mirror more often. He watched the faces of people his age to see how he was doing by comparison. Mary had never understood his fits of terror. She had made light of his panic. ‘Look,’ she had said, ‘you’re getting older. So am I, so is everyone.’ She had no conception of the cold fear in his stomach. No, this can’t be happening, he thought. Not to me. To other people maybe. Not to me. And now he was fifty-nine. Sometimes, in dark moments, the awful fact reared up and sent him reeling. But he had learned over the years how to cope. Activity was the thing. Fill the days, the evenings. Travel. Go out. Be with others. Talk, laugh. He made sure to surround himself with younger people. When his friends showed a sign of becoming a touch decrepit, he slid away from them. And, of course, his present wife, Susan, was not yet forty. And now here was Mary, his first wife. He thought with a tingle of pleasure how she would react when she saw him. He was glad he had worn his rather dashing new shirt and that Susan had woken with symptoms of flu and had decided to cry off the wedding. What luck. He expected that by now Mary would be wondering if he was here, would be casting glances around the room. She did not. She continued with her patient attention to the aunt, laughing with her in a way that had Clive in a sudden fit of jealousy. He tried to remember what news of her had reached him over the years. She had never remarried. No rings on her hands. She lived alone and worked in hospital administration, a career on which she embarked after their marriage broke up. He had behaved badly – he would be the first to accept that. But now was his chance – not to make amends but to initiate a new, rewarding relationship. That was what he needed. It need not affect his marriage in any way. It could be tactfully concealed from Susan. He was amazed at the excitement the sight of Mary had created in him. The aunt was distracted by other guests and Mary was alone. Clive arrived at her side. ‘Well…it’s wonderful to see you, Mary.’ She turned her head at the sound of his voice. There was no surprise on her face. ‘Hello, Clive,’ she said in a flat tone. ‘Well!’ he said again. He put everything into the look he gave her. His look told her that he admired her appearance, that he had noticed the pretty brooch on her jacket and her unusual silver earrings, that he had a thousand things to say to her. He knew such looks could be unsettling and he waited for her to look unsettled. She was silent for a moment, apparently studying him. Then she said, ‘I gather poor Susan’s got flu.’ This was not the direction in which he wanted them to go. He dealt quickly with Susan’s flu. He asked where Mary was living, and was told. He asked about her work, and was given a straightforward account of what she did. She seemed more confident than the Mary he remembered. She was quite high-powered, he realised. Like her dress and manner, this authority was undoubtedly part of her appeal. A woman of her time, he thought approvingly. He said something about his present life and gazed at her again with unashamed admiration. She seemed a touch restless. She glanced over his shoulder and sipped at her drink. She was affected by him, no doubt about that, he thought. Now was the time to make a direct approach. ‘Could we perhaps…meet?’ he said. She hesitated and now that wretched aunt was heading for them. Mary seemed about to speak, hesitated again. And then the aunt was there, chuntering on. Clive touched Mary’s arm and said, ‘I’ll call soon’ as he left them. He could understand her hesitation. She didn’t know how to respond. He would wait a couple of days and contact her. The groundwork had been done. The foundations had been laid. He wrote her a letter and told her how deeply he had been moved by seeing her. He hinted at years of regret. He implied a void in his life. He included one or two references to their life together. He concluded by proposing lunch in three days’ time. He named a restaurant. If he did not hear from her he would assume that this was acceptable and would look forward with immense pleasure to seeing her again. He arrived slightly late at the restaurant and looked around anxiously. No sight of her but then the waiter said, ‘A lady came earlier, sir. She left you this note.’ Clive took the envelope, feeling a trickle of fear. He sat down, pulled out a single sheet of paper and began to read. Dear Clive, No, thank you. Not lunch and not anything else. I wonder what makes you think I would wish to? Well, empathy never was your strong point. Your letter implied a certain emptiness, a state of mind with which I have been deeply familiar. However, I am not the right person to offer comfort. I’m sure you will find someone more sympathetic, unless you have entirely lost your touch. Thank you for the compliments – most acceptable to a woman of my age. You haven’t changed much yourself, though more I fear than you would like. The signs of a desperate struggle against time are plainly visible. You seem anxious to remind me of the old days, so I’m sure you won’t mind if I make a point or two. I wouldn’t tint the grey bits in your hair if I were you. It shows in a strong light. Also, the pink shirt is unwise in a man of your age and figure. I do hope Susan’s flu is better. Poor thing. Yours, Mary ‘Would you care for a drink, sir?’ the waiter was saying. In this story, the narrator describes her relationship with her mother, and her sister, Lisa. A World of Her Own My sister Lisa is an artist. She is not like other people. Lisa is two years younger than I am, and we knew quite early on that she was artistic, partly because she could always draw so nicely, but also because of the way she behaved. “She lives in a world of her own,” my mother used to say. She was always the difficult one, always having tantrums and getting upset about one thing and another, but once mother realised about her being artistic she made allowances. We all did. The art teacher at school said she had real talent and mother was thrilled to bits. She’d always admired creative people. She’d have loved to be able to write or paint herself but having Lisa turn out that way was the next best thing, or better, even, perhaps. When Lisa was fifteen, mother went to work in Luigi’s Delicatessen, behind the counter, to save up so there would be a bit extra for Lisa when she went to art school. It worried me rather, mother going out to work like that. She’s had asthma for years now, and besides she felt awkward, serving in a shop. But the trouble is, she’s not qualified at anything and in any case, as she said, a delicatessen isn’t like an ordinary shop or a supermarket. I was at college by then, doing my teaching qualification. Lisa went to one of the London art schools, and came back at the end of her first term looking as weird as anything. You’d hardly have known her, her hair dyed red and wearing black clothes with pop art stuck on and I don’t know what. It was just as well mother had saved up, because it all turned out much more expensive than we’d thought. There was so much she had to do, like going to plays and things, and of course she needed smarter clothes, and more of them, and then the next year she had to travel all summer to see great paintings and architecture. She was away for months and when she came back she had changed completely all over again – her hair was blonde and frizzed out, and she was wearing a lot of leather things, very expensive boots up to her thighs and long suede coats. She did come home for Christmas and sometimes she was chatty and made everybody laugh and other times she was bad-tempered and moody but, as mother said, she’d always been like that from a little girl and of course you had to expect it, with her artistic temperament. Lisa finished at her art college, and got whatever qualification they get, and then couldn’t find a job. At least she didn’t want any of the jobs she could have got, like jobs on magazines or for publishers or that kind of thing. “And can you blame her,” said mother. “I mean, what a waste of her talents, it’s ridiculous, all that time she’s spent developing herself and then they expect her to be tied down to some nine-to-five job like everyone else!” I got my teaching qualification and started teaching and not long after that I married Jim, whom I’d met at college, and we had the children quite soon because I thought I’d go back to work when they were at school. I thought my life seemed to be following a clear path. Lisa had come to live at home and she was fed up. Mother gave up her big bedroom and had the builders put a skylight in and made it into a studio for Lisa with a bare, polished floor and a big new easel that mother got by selling that silver tea set that was a wedding present and she said she never liked anyway. But then it turned out Lisa didn’t do that kind of painting, but funny things to do with bits of material all glued together. And when she did paint she would be squatting on the floor, or lying on her stomach on the sofa. I couldn’t make head or tail of the art Lisa did. I mean, I just didn’t know if it was any good or not. But then, I wouldn’t, would I? I’m not experienced in things like that. Lisa mooched about at home for months and, sadly, actually did less and less painting. Then Bella Sims arrived and opened this new gallery in town. Bella’s place was real art, you could see that at once – lots of pictures hung far apart, pottery vases so expensive they didn’t have a price on them. Lisa took along some of her things one day and believe it or not Bella liked them and put three of them in her next exhibition. Mother and I were so thrilled we cried when Lisa first told us. Bella Sims was about fifty, one of those people with a loud, posh voice and hair that’s just been done at the hairdresser and expensive jewellery. She scared the wits out of me, though mother kept saying what a marvellous person she was. I didn’t enjoy the party for the opening of the exhibition and nobody talked to us much. But Lisa had a good time and she met Melvyn at that party. Melvyn was Bella’s son. He taught design. That meant he was creative, though not a real artist like Lisa. He fell for her heavily and quite soon they said they were getting married. We were all pleased, because Melvyn was nice – you’d never have guessed he was Bella’s son – and we didn’t realise till later that it was because Francesca was on the way. Mother was a bit upset about that but actually she worried more about Lisa not being able to paint once the baby was born. Actually, it didn’t work out that way. Lisa soon got into the habit of leaving Francesca with mother or me. She had to go to London a lot to keep in touch with her friends and try to find openings for her work. I had my two, of course, so, as she said, an extra one didn’t make much difference. It did get more of a strain the next year though after she had Jason. Four children is quite a lot to keep an eye on. And so it went on. In the years that followed, Lisa had a series of relationships and more children. She moved to London and then there was Wales with a Polish sculptor and France with the tapestry people, London again and the cottage in Sussex that someone lent her… The last time she was here I suddenly realised she is nearly forty. It doesn’t seem right; she is a person that things have always been in front of, somehow, not behind. Mother and I cleaned out Lisa’s old studio the other day. I found some really nice drawings of things Lisa did at school. Mother put them aside and said she might have them framed and hang them in the hall. Holding them, she said, “With her temperament, I suppose you could not expect her to settle but at least she has always been free to express herself, which is the important thing”. When I did not answer, she said, “Isn’t it, dear?” I said, “Yes. Yes, I think so mother”. Penelope Lively This story is set in Botswana, a country in Africa. 1 Mma Ramotswe had set up her detective agency with the money from the sale of her father’s cattle. He had owned a big herd and had no other children so every single animal went to her when he was no longer able to take care of them. ‘I want you to have your own business,’ he said. She held her father’s hand and looked into the eyes of the man she loved beyond all others and who had worked and saved to make life good for her. After a slow start, she was surprised to find that her services as a private detective were in considerable demand. In almost every case she came up with some information for the client. When she could not, she did not charge a fee, which meant that everyone was happy. 10 When Happy Bapetsi came in, Mma Ramotswe gave her some tea, as she always did with nervous clients, and watched her closely. Mma Ramotswe confidently believed that everything you wanted to know about a person was written in the face. Now this Happy Bapetsi was intelligent and she also had few worries. This was shown by the fact she had few lines on her face. So it was man trouble, Mma Ramotswe thought. Some man had turned up and spoilt everything, destroying her happiness with his bad behaviour. ‘I used to have a happy life,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘A very happy life. Then this thing happened, and I can’t say that anymore. Let me tell you a little about myself. I was brought up by my mother. My mother told me my Daddy went away to work when I was a little baby and never came back. My mother did not mind a great deal because she never really liked him.’ 20 She went on, ‘I did well at school and discovered that I could do arithmetic rather well. Eventually I got a job in a bank and it was simple for me. I could look at whole sheets of figures and understand them immediately. I got promotion after promotion but I don’t think I can go further because all the men are worried that I’ll make them look stupid. But I don’t mind. I get good pay and I have a nice house with four rooms. I finish work by three in the afternoon and then I go shopping.’ Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘You have done well.’ ‘I was very happy,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘But then this thing happened. My Daddy arrived at the house.’ Mma drew in her breath. She had expected a boyfriend problem but fathers were a different matter altogether. ‘He just knocked on the door,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘It was a Saturday afternoon and I was resting when I heard him knocking. I went to the door and there was this man, about sixty or so, standing there with his hat in his hands. He told me that he was my Daddy and that he had been living abroad for a long time but now he was back in Botswana. And had come to see me. I almost fainted. He then asked if he could stay in one of the spare rooms.’ She paused. ‘That was three months ago. Since then, he has been living in that room and I have been doing all the work for him. All he does is sit in his chair and tell me what to do for him next.’ ‘Many men are like that,’ interrupted Mma Ramotswe. 40 Happy Bapetsi nodded. ‘This one is especially like that and I have been getting very tired of running after him. I would not resent this but I do not think he is my real Daddy. I think he is an impostor and is just looking for a good retirement home.’ Mma Ramotswe just stared in astonishment. ‘Can you help me? Can you find out if this man is my real Daddy?’ said Happy Bapetsi with desperation in her voice. Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. ‘I’ll find out,’ she said. ‘It may take a day or two but I’ll find out.’ The next day, Mma Ramotswe put her plan into action. She borrowed a nurse’s uniform and set off to Happy Bapetsi’s house. As she neared the house, she increased her speed so that she would arrive in a cloud of dust. The Daddy was sitting in his chair outside the front door and he sat up straight when he saw Mma Ramotswe run up to the house. ‘Are you Happy Bapetsi’s Daddy?’ she asked, pretending to be out of breath. ‘Yes,’ he said proudly. ‘I’m sorry to say there has been an accident. Happy was run over and has lost a lot of blood. She needs a big operation.’ The Daddy let out a wail. ‘My daughter! My baby Happy!’ A good actor, thought Mma Ramotswe. ‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘It is very sad. And they need lots of blood to make up for what she has lost.’ The Daddy frowned. ‘They must give her that blood. We can pay.’ ‘It’s not the money,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘We must have blood from her family and you’re the only one she has.’ The Daddy sat down heavily. ‘I’m an old man,’ he said. Mma Ramotswe sensed it would work. This man was an impostor. ‘That is why we are asking you. She needs so much blood. They will have to take about half your blood. And that is very dangerous for you. You could die.’ The Daddy’s mouth fell open. ‘Die?’ ‘Yes,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘But you are her father and we know that you would do this for your daughter. The doctor is waiting.’ Mma Ramotswe took his wrist and tugged him towards the van. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to.’ ‘You must,’ said Mma Ramotswe. The Daddy shook his head. ‘No,’ he said faintly. ‘I won’t. You see, I’m not really her Daddy. There has been a mistake.’ Mma Ramotswe let go of his wrist. Then, arms folded, she stood before him and addressed him directly. ‘So you are not the Daddy. Then what are you doing sitting in that chair and eating her food? Have you heard what the law says about people like you?’ The Daddy looked at the ground and shook his head. ‘Well,’ said Mma Ramotswe firmly. ‘You go inside that house and get your things. You have five minutes. Then I am going to take you to the bus station.’ The Daddy just stood there, looking miserable. ‘Inside!’ she ordered. ‘Four minutes left now!’ Alexander McCall Smith Read lines 8-23. What impressions does the writer create of the Lennox family in these lines? You must refer to the language used in the text to support your answer, using relevant subject terminology where appropriate.

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The First Wife SECTION A: 40 marks Read carefully the passage below. The First Wife At his niece’s wedding Clive Harper fell in love again with his ex-wife, Mary. At least that was how it felt. There she was, not seen for many a year, and he found himself in a turmoil. She was looking older, greyer but undeniably attractive. A tall woman in a stylish light green suit, an expensive silk scarf knotted at her neck. Elegant shoes. Clive noticed this sort of thing about a woman. A warm smile on her face as she talked to an old aunt. Clive was overcome with a quite desperate sense of loss. He quite forgot that he had left her, all those years ago, when he suddenly became aware that she had begun to look old. He was forty when he left Mary and moved in with Colette, who was twenty-four and French, an irresistible combination. Of course, Mary had been badly hurt. He could see that now. The arrangement with Colette had not lasted long. Indeed he could barely remember her now. She had had many successors over the years. He had to have that constant thrill of a new interest – the anticipation of a secret meeting, the flattery of a new face turned attentively to his. He was terrified of ageing. It had begun in his twenties when he realised to his dismay there were people younger than himself. The thought filled him with nausea and self-pity. His thirtieth birthday had smashed into him like a rock in a tranquil sea. He found himself looking in the mirror more often. He watched the faces of people his age to see how he was doing by comparison. Mary had never understood his fits of terror. She had made light of his panic. ‘Look,’ she had said, ‘you’re getting older. So am I, so is everyone.’ She had no conception of the cold fear in his stomach. No, this can’t be happening, he thought. Not to me. To other people maybe. Not to me. And now he was fifty-nine. Sometimes, in dark moments, the awful fact reared up and sent him reeling. But he had learned over the years how to cope. Activity was the thing. Fill the days, the evenings. Travel. Go out. Be with others. Talk, laugh. He made sure to surround himself with younger people. When his friends showed a sign of becoming a touch decrepit, he slid away from them. And, of course, his present wife, Susan, was not yet forty. And now here was Mary, his first wife. He thought with a tingle of pleasure how she would react when she saw him. He was glad he had worn his rather dashing new shirt and that Susan had woken with symptoms of flu and had decided to cry off the wedding. What luck. He expected that by now Mary would be wondering if he was here, would be casting glances around the room. She did not. She continued with her patient attention to the aunt, laughing with her in a way that had Clive in a sudden fit of jealousy. He tried to remember what news of her had reached him over the years. She had never remarried. No rings on her hands. She lived alone and worked in hospital administration, a career on which she embarked after their marriage broke up. He had behaved badly – he would be the first to accept that. But now was his chance – not to make amends but to initiate a new, rewarding relationship. That was what he needed. It need not affect his marriage in any way. It could be tactfully concealed from Susan. He was amazed at the excitement the sight of Mary had created in him. The aunt was distracted by other guests and Mary was alone. Clive arrived at her side. ‘Well…it’s wonderful to see you, Mary.’ She turned her head at the sound of his voice. There was no surprise on her face. ‘Hello, Clive,’ she said in a flat tone. ‘Well!’ he said again. He put everything into the look he gave her. His look told her that he admired her appearance, that he had noticed the pretty brooch on her jacket and her unusual silver earrings, that he had a thousand things to say to her. He knew such looks could be unsettling and he waited for her to look unsettled. She was silent for a moment, apparently studying him. Then she said, ‘I gather poor Susan’s got flu.’ This was not the direction in which he wanted them to go. He dealt quickly with Susan’s flu. He asked where Mary was living, and was told. He asked about her work, and was given a straightforward account of what she did. She seemed more confident than the Mary he remembered. She was quite high-powered, he realised. Like her dress and manner, this authority was undoubtedly part of her appeal. A woman of her time, he thought approvingly. He said something about his present life and gazed at her again with unashamed admiration. She seemed a touch restless. She glanced over his shoulder and sipped at her drink. She was affected by him, no doubt about that, he thought. Now was the time to make a direct approach. ‘Could we perhaps…meet?’ he said. She hesitated and now that wretched aunt was heading for them. Mary seemed about to speak, hesitated again. And then the aunt was there, chuntering on. Clive touched Mary’s arm and said, ‘I’ll call soon’ as he left them. He could understand her hesitation. She didn’t know how to respond. He would wait a couple of days and contact her. The groundwork had been done. The foundations had been laid. He wrote her a letter and told her how deeply he had been moved by seeing her. He hinted at years of regret. He implied a void in his life. He included one or two references to their life together. He concluded by proposing lunch in three days’ time. He named a restaurant. If he did not hear from her he would assume that this was acceptable and would look forward with immense pleasure to seeing her again. He arrived slightly late at the restaurant and looked around anxiously. No sight of her but then the waiter said, ‘A lady came earlier, sir. She left you this note.’ Clive took the envelope, feeling a trickle of fear. He sat down, pulled out a single sheet of paper and began to read. Dear Clive, No, thank you. Not lunch and not anything else. I wonder what makes you think I would wish to? Well, empathy never was your strong point. Your letter implied a certain emptiness, a state of mind with which I have been deeply familiar. However, I am not the right person to offer comfort. I’m sure you will find someone more sympathetic, unless you have entirely lost your touch. Thank you for the compliments – most acceptable to a woman of my age. You haven’t changed much yourself, though more I fear than you would like. The signs of a desperate struggle against time are plainly visible. You seem anxious to remind me of the old days, so I’m sure you won’t mind if I make a point or two. I wouldn’t tint the grey bits in your hair if I were you. It shows in a strong light. Also, the pink shirt is unwise in a man of your age and figure. I do hope Susan’s flu is better. Poor thing. Yours, Mary ‘Would you care for a drink, sir?’ the waiter was saying. In this story, the narrator describes her relationship with her mother, and her sister, Lisa. A World of Her Own My sister Lisa is an artist. She is not like other people. Lisa is two years younger than I am, and we knew quite early on that she was artistic, partly because she could always draw so nicely, but also because of the way she behaved. “She lives in a world of her own,” my mother used to say. She was always the difficult one, always having tantrums and getting upset about one thing and another, but once mother realised about her being artistic she made allowances. We all did. The art teacher at school said she had real talent and mother was thrilled to bits. She’d always admired creative people. She’d have loved to be able to write or paint herself but having Lisa turn out that way was the next best thing, or better, even, perhaps. When Lisa was fifteen, mother went to work in Luigi’s Delicatessen, behind the counter, to save up so there would be a bit extra for Lisa when she went to art school. It worried me rather, mother going out to work like that. She’s had asthma for years now, and besides she felt awkward, serving in a shop. But the trouble is, she’s not qualified at anything and in any case, as she said, a delicatessen isn’t like an ordinary shop or a supermarket. I was at college by then, doing my teaching qualification. Lisa went to one of the London art schools, and came back at the end of her first term looking as weird as anything. You’d hardly have known her, her hair dyed red and wearing black clothes with pop art stuck on and I don’t know what. It was just as well mother had saved up, because it all turned out much more expensive than we’d thought. There was so much she had to do, like going to plays and things, and of course she needed smarter clothes, and more of them, and then the next year she had to travel all summer to see great paintings and architecture. She was away for months and when she came back she had changed completely all over again – her hair was blonde and frizzed out, and she was wearing a lot of leather things, very expensive boots up to her thighs and long suede coats. She did come home for Christmas and sometimes she was chatty and made everybody laugh and other times she was bad-tempered and moody but, as mother said, she’d always been like that from a little girl and of course you had to expect it, with her artistic temperament. Lisa finished at her art college, and got whatever qualification they get, and then couldn’t find a job. At least she didn’t want any of the jobs she could have got, like jobs on magazines or for publishers or that kind of thing. “And can you blame her,” said mother. “I mean, what a waste of her talents, it’s ridiculous, all that time she’s spent developing herself and then they expect her to be tied down to some nine-to-five job like everyone else!” I got my teaching qualification and started teaching and not long after that I married Jim, whom I’d met at college, and we had the children quite soon because I thought I’d go back to work when they were at school. I thought my life seemed to be following a clear path. Lisa had come to live at home and she was fed up. Mother gave up her big bedroom and had the builders put a skylight in and made it into a studio for Lisa with a bare, polished floor and a big new easel that mother got by selling that silver tea set that was a wedding present and she said she never liked anyway. But then it turned out Lisa didn’t do that kind of painting, but funny things to do with bits of material all glued together. And when she did paint she would be squatting on the floor, or lying on her stomach on the sofa. I couldn’t make head or tail of the art Lisa did. I mean, I just didn’t know if it was any good or not. But then, I wouldn’t, would I? I’m not experienced in things like that. Lisa mooched about at home for months and, sadly, actually did less and less painting. Then Bella Sims arrived and opened this new gallery in town. Bella’s place was real art, you could see that at once – lots of pictures hung far apart, pottery vases so expensive they didn’t have a price on them. Lisa took along some of her things one day and believe it or not Bella liked them and put three of them in her next exhibition. Mother and I were so thrilled we cried when Lisa first told us. Bella Sims was about fifty, one of those people with a loud, posh voice and hair that’s just been done at the hairdresser and expensive jewellery. She scared the wits out of me, though mother kept saying what a marvellous person she was. I didn’t enjoy the party for the opening of the exhibition and nobody talked to us much. But Lisa had a good time and she met Melvyn at that party. Melvyn was Bella’s son. He taught design. That meant he was creative, though not a real artist like Lisa. He fell for her heavily and quite soon they said they were getting married. We were all pleased, because Melvyn was nice – you’d never have guessed he was Bella’s son – and we didn’t realise till later that it was because Francesca was on the way. Mother was a bit upset about that but actually she worried more about Lisa not being able to paint once the baby was born. Actually, it didn’t work out that way. Lisa soon got into the habit of leaving Francesca with mother or me. She had to go to London a lot to keep in touch with her friends and try to find openings for her work. I had my two, of course, so, as she said, an extra one didn’t make much difference. It did get more of a strain the next year though after she had Jason. Four children is quite a lot to keep an eye on. And so it went on. In the years that followed, Lisa had a series of relationships and more children. She moved to London and then there was Wales with a Polish sculptor and France with the tapestry people, London again and the cottage in Sussex that someone lent her… The last time she was here I suddenly realised she is nearly forty. It doesn’t seem right; she is a person that things have always been in front of, somehow, not behind. Mother and I cleaned out Lisa’s old studio the other day. I found some really nice drawings of things Lisa did at school. Mother put them aside and said she might have them framed and hang them in the hall. Holding them, she said, “With her temperament, I suppose you could not expect her to settle but at least she has always been free to express herself, which is the important thing”. When I did not answer, she said, “Isn’t it, dear?” I said, “Yes. Yes, I think so mother”. Penelope Lively This story is set in Botswana, a country in Africa. 1 Mma Ramotswe had set up her detective agency with the money from the sale of her father’s cattle. He had owned a big herd and had no other children so every single animal went to her when he was no longer able to take care of them. ‘I want you to have your own business,’ he said. She held her father’s hand and looked into the eyes of the man she loved beyond all others and who had worked and saved to make life good for her. After a slow start, she was surprised to find that her services as a private detective were in considerable demand. In almost every case she came up with some information for the client. When she could not, she did not charge a fee, which meant that everyone was happy. 10 When Happy Bapetsi came in, Mma Ramotswe gave her some tea, as she always did with nervous clients, and watched her closely. Mma Ramotswe confidently believed that everything you wanted to know about a person was written in the face. Now this Happy Bapetsi was intelligent and she also had few worries. This was shown by the fact she had few lines on her face. So it was man trouble, Mma Ramotswe thought. Some man had turned up and spoilt everything, destroying her happiness with his bad behaviour. ‘I used to have a happy life,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘A very happy life. Then this thing happened, and I can’t say that anymore. Let me tell you a little about myself. I was brought up by my mother. My mother told me my Daddy went away to work when I was a little baby and never came back. My mother did not mind a great deal because she never really liked him.’ 20 She went on, ‘I did well at school and discovered that I could do arithmetic rather well. Eventually I got a job in a bank and it was simple for me. I could look at whole sheets of figures and understand them immediately. I got promotion after promotion but I don’t think I can go further because all the men are worried that I’ll make them look stupid. But I don’t mind. I get good pay and I have a nice house with four rooms. I finish work by three in the afternoon and then I go shopping.’ Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘You have done well.’ ‘I was very happy,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘But then this thing happened. My Daddy arrived at the house.’ Mma drew in her breath. She had expected a boyfriend problem but fathers were a different matter altogether. ‘He just knocked on the door,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘It was a Saturday afternoon and I was resting when I heard him knocking. I went to the door and there was this man, about sixty or so, standing there with his hat in his hands. He told me that he was my Daddy and that he had been living abroad for a long time but now he was back in Botswana. And had come to see me. I almost fainted. He then asked if he could stay in one of the spare rooms.’ She paused. ‘That was three months ago. Since then, he has been living in that room and I have been doing all the work for him. All he does is sit in his chair and tell me what to do for him next.’ ‘Many men are like that,’ interrupted Mma Ramotswe. 40 Happy Bapetsi nodded. ‘This one is especially like that and I have been getting very tired of running after him. I would not resent this but I do not think he is my real Daddy. I think he is an impostor and is just looking for a good retirement home.’ Mma Ramotswe just stared in astonishment. ‘Can you help me? Can you find out if this man is my real Daddy?’ said Happy Bapetsi with desperation in her voice. Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. ‘I’ll find out,’ she said. ‘It may take a day or two but I’ll find out.’ The next day, Mma Ramotswe put her plan into action. She borrowed a nurse’s uniform and set off to Happy Bapetsi’s house. As she neared the house, she increased her speed so that she would arrive in a cloud of dust. The Daddy was sitting in his chair outside the front door and he sat up straight when he saw Mma Ramotswe run up to the house. ‘Are you Happy Bapetsi’s Daddy?’ she asked, pretending to be out of breath. ‘Yes,’ he said proudly. ‘I’m sorry to say there has been an accident. Happy was run over and has lost a lot of blood. She needs a big operation.’ The Daddy let out a wail. ‘My daughter! My baby Happy!’ A good actor, thought Mma Ramotswe. ‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘It is very sad. And they need lots of blood to make up for what she has lost.’ The Daddy frowned. ‘They must give her that blood. We can pay.’ ‘It’s not the money,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘We must have blood from her family and you’re the only one she has.’ The Daddy sat down heavily. ‘I’m an old man,’ he said. Mma Ramotswe sensed it would work. This man was an impostor. ‘That is why we are asking you. She needs so much blood. They will have to take about half your blood. And that is very dangerous for you. You could die.’ The Daddy’s mouth fell open. ‘Die?’ ‘Yes,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘But you are her father and we know that you would do this for your daughter. The doctor is waiting.’ Mma Ramotswe took his wrist and tugged him towards the van. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to.’ ‘You must,’ said Mma Ramotswe. The Daddy shook his head. ‘No,’ he said faintly. ‘I won’t. You see, I’m not really her Daddy. There has been a mistake.’ Mma Ramotswe let go of his wrist. Then, arms folded, she stood before him and addressed him directly. ‘So you are not the Daddy. Then what are you doing sitting in that chair and eating her food? Have you heard what the law says about people like you?’ The Daddy looked at the ground and shook his head. ‘Well,’ said Mma Ramotswe firmly. ‘You go inside that house and get your things. You have five minutes. Then I am going to take you to the bus station.’ The Daddy just stood there, looking miserable. ‘Inside!’ she ordered. ‘Four minutes left now!’ Alexander McCall Smith Read lines 24-35. How does the writer show the fire spreading and becoming very serious in these lines? You must refer to the language used in the text to support your answer, using relevant subject terminology where appropriate.

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The First Wife SECTION A: 40 marks Read carefully the passage below. The First Wife At his niece’s wedding Clive Harper fell in love again with his ex-wife, Mary. At least that was how it felt. There she was, not seen for many a year, and he found himself in a turmoil. She was looking older, greyer but undeniably attractive. A tall woman in a stylish light green suit, an expensive silk scarf knotted at her neck. Elegant shoes. Clive noticed this sort of thing about a woman. A warm smile on her face as she talked to an old aunt. Clive was overcome with a quite desperate sense of loss. He quite forgot that he had left her, all those years ago, when he suddenly became aware that she had begun to look old. He was forty when he left Mary and moved in with Colette, who was twenty-four and French, an irresistible combination. Of course, Mary had been badly hurt. He could see that now. The arrangement with Colette had not lasted long. Indeed he could barely remember her now. She had had many successors over the years. He had to have that constant thrill of a new interest – the anticipation of a secret meeting, the flattery of a new face turned attentively to his. He was terrified of ageing. It had begun in his twenties when he realised to his dismay there were people younger than himself. The thought filled him with nausea and self-pity. His thirtieth birthday had smashed into him like a rock in a tranquil sea. He found himself looking in the mirror more often. He watched the faces of people his age to see how he was doing by comparison. Mary had never understood his fits of terror. She had made light of his panic. ‘Look,’ she had said, ‘you’re getting older. So am I, so is everyone.’ She had no conception of the cold fear in his stomach. No, this can’t be happening, he thought. Not to me. To other people maybe. Not to me. And now he was fifty-nine. Sometimes, in dark moments, the awful fact reared up and sent him reeling. But he had learned over the years how to cope. Activity was the thing. Fill the days, the evenings. Travel. Go out. Be with others. Talk, laugh. He made sure to surround himself with younger people. When his friends showed a sign of becoming a touch decrepit, he slid away from them. And, of course, his present wife, Susan, was not yet forty. And now here was Mary, his first wife. He thought with a tingle of pleasure how she would react when she saw him. He was glad he had worn his rather dashing new shirt and that Susan had woken with symptoms of flu and had decided to cry off the wedding. What luck. He expected that by now Mary would be wondering if he was here, would be casting glances around the room. She did not. She continued with her patient attention to the aunt, laughing with her in a way that had Clive in a sudden fit of jealousy. He tried to remember what news of her had reached him over the years. She had never remarried. No rings on her hands. She lived alone and worked in hospital administration, a career on which she embarked after their marriage broke up. He had behaved badly – he would be the first to accept that. But now was his chance – not to make amends but to initiate a new, rewarding relationship. That was what he needed. It need not affect his marriage in any way. It could be tactfully concealed from Susan. He was amazed at the excitement the sight of Mary had created in him. The aunt was distracted by other guests and Mary was alone. Clive arrived at her side. ‘Well…it’s wonderful to see you, Mary.’ She turned her head at the sound of his voice. There was no surprise on her face. ‘Hello, Clive,’ she said in a flat tone. ‘Well!’ he said again. He put everything into the look he gave her. His look told her that he admired her appearance, that he had noticed the pretty brooch on her jacket and her unusual silver earrings, that he had a thousand things to say to her. He knew such looks could be unsettling and he waited for her to look unsettled. She was silent for a moment, apparently studying him. Then she said, ‘I gather poor Susan’s got flu.’ This was not the direction in which he wanted them to go. He dealt quickly with Susan’s flu. He asked where Mary was living, and was told. He asked about her work, and was given a straightforward account of what she did. She seemed more confident than the Mary he remembered. She was quite high-powered, he realised. Like her dress and manner, this authority was undoubtedly part of her appeal. A woman of her time, he thought approvingly. He said something about his present life and gazed at her again with unashamed admiration. She seemed a touch restless. She glanced over his shoulder and sipped at her drink. She was affected by him, no doubt about that, he thought. Now was the time to make a direct approach. ‘Could we perhaps…meet?’ he said. She hesitated and now that wretched aunt was heading for them. Mary seemed about to speak, hesitated again. And then the aunt was there, chuntering on. Clive touched Mary’s arm and said, ‘I’ll call soon’ as he left them. He could understand her hesitation. She didn’t know how to respond. He would wait a couple of days and contact her. The groundwork had been done. The foundations had been laid. He wrote her a letter and told her how deeply he had been moved by seeing her. He hinted at years of regret. He implied a void in his life. He included one or two references to their life together. He concluded by proposing lunch in three days’ time. He named a restaurant. If he did not hear from her he would assume that this was acceptable and would look forward with immense pleasure to seeing her again. He arrived slightly late at the restaurant and looked around anxiously. No sight of her but then the waiter said, ‘A lady came earlier, sir. She left you this note.’ Clive took the envelope, feeling a trickle of fear. He sat down, pulled out a single sheet of paper and began to read. Dear Clive, No, thank you. Not lunch and not anything else. I wonder what makes you think I would wish to? Well, empathy never was your strong point. Your letter implied a certain emptiness, a state of mind with which I have been deeply familiar. However, I am not the right person to offer comfort. I’m sure you will find someone more sympathetic, unless you have entirely lost your touch. Thank you for the compliments – most acceptable to a woman of my age. You haven’t changed much yourself, though more I fear than you would like. The signs of a desperate struggle against time are plainly visible. You seem anxious to remind me of the old days, so I’m sure you won’t mind if I make a point or two. I wouldn’t tint the grey bits in your hair if I were you. It shows in a strong light. Also, the pink shirt is unwise in a man of your age and figure. I do hope Susan’s flu is better. Poor thing. Yours, Mary ‘Would you care for a drink, sir?’ the waiter was saying. In this story, the narrator describes her relationship with her mother, and her sister, Lisa. A World of Her Own My sister Lisa is an artist. She is not like other people. Lisa is two years younger than I am, and we knew quite early on that she was artistic, partly because she could always draw so nicely, but also because of the way she behaved. “She lives in a world of her own,” my mother used to say. She was always the difficult one, always having tantrums and getting upset about one thing and another, but once mother realised about her being artistic she made allowances. We all did. The art teacher at school said she had real talent and mother was thrilled to bits. She’d always admired creative people. She’d have loved to be able to write or paint herself but having Lisa turn out that way was the next best thing, or better, even, perhaps. When Lisa was fifteen, mother went to work in Luigi’s Delicatessen, behind the counter, to save up so there would be a bit extra for Lisa when she went to art school. It worried me rather, mother going out to work like that. She’s had asthma for years now, and besides she felt awkward, serving in a shop. But the trouble is, she’s not qualified at anything and in any case, as she said, a delicatessen isn’t like an ordinary shop or a supermarket. I was at college by then, doing my teaching qualification. Lisa went to one of the London art schools, and came back at the end of her first term looking as weird as anything. You’d hardly have known her, her hair dyed red and wearing black clothes with pop art stuck on and I don’t know what. It was just as well mother had saved up, because it all turned out much more expensive than we’d thought. There was so much she had to do, like going to plays and things, and of course she needed smarter clothes, and more of them, and then the next year she had to travel all summer to see great paintings and architecture. She was away for months and when she came back she had changed completely all over again – her hair was blonde and frizzed out, and she was wearing a lot of leather things, very expensive boots up to her thighs and long suede coats. She did come home for Christmas and sometimes she was chatty and made everybody laugh and other times she was bad-tempered and moody but, as mother said, she’d always been like that from a little girl and of course you had to expect it, with her artistic temperament. Lisa finished at her art college, and got whatever qualification they get, and then couldn’t find a job. At least she didn’t want any of the jobs she could have got, like jobs on magazines or for publishers or that kind of thing. “And can you blame her,” said mother. “I mean, what a waste of her talents, it’s ridiculous, all that time she’s spent developing herself and then they expect her to be tied down to some nine-to-five job like everyone else!” I got my teaching qualification and started teaching and not long after that I married Jim, whom I’d met at college, and we had the children quite soon because I thought I’d go back to work when they were at school. I thought my life seemed to be following a clear path. Lisa had come to live at home and she was fed up. Mother gave up her big bedroom and had the builders put a skylight in and made it into a studio for Lisa with a bare, polished floor and a big new easel that mother got by selling that silver tea set that was a wedding present and she said she never liked anyway. But then it turned out Lisa didn’t do that kind of painting, but funny things to do with bits of material all glued together. And when she did paint she would be squatting on the floor, or lying on her stomach on the sofa. I couldn’t make head or tail of the art Lisa did. I mean, I just didn’t know if it was any good or not. But then, I wouldn’t, would I? I’m not experienced in things like that. Lisa mooched about at home for months and, sadly, actually did less and less painting. Then Bella Sims arrived and opened this new gallery in town. Bella’s place was real art, you could see that at once – lots of pictures hung far apart, pottery vases so expensive they didn’t have a price on them. Lisa took along some of her things one day and believe it or not Bella liked them and put three of them in her next exhibition. Mother and I were so thrilled we cried when Lisa first told us. Bella Sims was about fifty, one of those people with a loud, posh voice and hair that’s just been done at the hairdresser and expensive jewellery. She scared the wits out of me, though mother kept saying what a marvellous person she was. I didn’t enjoy the party for the opening of the exhibition and nobody talked to us much. But Lisa had a good time and she met Melvyn at that party. Melvyn was Bella’s son. He taught design. That meant he was creative, though not a real artist like Lisa. He fell for her heavily and quite soon they said they were getting married. We were all pleased, because Melvyn was nice – you’d never have guessed he was Bella’s son – and we didn’t realise till later that it was because Francesca was on the way. Mother was a bit upset about that but actually she worried more about Lisa not being able to paint once the baby was born. Actually, it didn’t work out that way. Lisa soon got into the habit of leaving Francesca with mother or me. She had to go to London a lot to keep in touch with her friends and try to find openings for her work. I had my two, of course, so, as she said, an extra one didn’t make much difference. It did get more of a strain the next year though after she had Jason. Four children is quite a lot to keep an eye on. And so it went on. In the years that followed, Lisa had a series of relationships and more children. She moved to London and then there was Wales with a Polish sculptor and France with the tapestry people, London again and the cottage in Sussex that someone lent her… The last time she was here I suddenly realised she is nearly forty. It doesn’t seem right; she is a person that things have always been in front of, somehow, not behind. Mother and I cleaned out Lisa’s old studio the other day. I found some really nice drawings of things Lisa did at school. Mother put them aside and said she might have them framed and hang them in the hall. Holding them, she said, “With her temperament, I suppose you could not expect her to settle but at least she has always been free to express herself, which is the important thing”. When I did not answer, she said, “Isn’t it, dear?” I said, “Yes. Yes, I think so mother”. Penelope Lively This story is set in Botswana, a country in Africa. 1 Mma Ramotswe had set up her detective agency with the money from the sale of her father’s cattle. He had owned a big herd and had no other children so every single animal went to her when he was no longer able to take care of them. ‘I want you to have your own business,’ he said. She held her father’s hand and looked into the eyes of the man she loved beyond all others and who had worked and saved to make life good for her. After a slow start, she was surprised to find that her services as a private detective were in considerable demand. In almost every case she came up with some information for the client. When she could not, she did not charge a fee, which meant that everyone was happy. 10 When Happy Bapetsi came in, Mma Ramotswe gave her some tea, as she always did with nervous clients, and watched her closely. Mma Ramotswe confidently believed that everything you wanted to know about a person was written in the face. Now this Happy Bapetsi was intelligent and she also had few worries. This was shown by the fact she had few lines on her face. So it was man trouble, Mma Ramotswe thought. Some man had turned up and spoilt everything, destroying her happiness with his bad behaviour. ‘I used to have a happy life,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘A very happy life. Then this thing happened, and I can’t say that anymore. Let me tell you a little about myself. I was brought up by my mother. My mother told me my Daddy went away to work when I was a little baby and never came back. My mother did not mind a great deal because she never really liked him.’ 20 She went on, ‘I did well at school and discovered that I could do arithmetic rather well. Eventually I got a job in a bank and it was simple for me. I could look at whole sheets of figures and understand them immediately. I got promotion after promotion but I don’t think I can go further because all the men are worried that I’ll make them look stupid. But I don’t mind. I get good pay and I have a nice house with four rooms. I finish work by three in the afternoon and then I go shopping.’ Mma Ramotswe smiled. ‘You have done well.’ ‘I was very happy,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘But then this thing happened. My Daddy arrived at the house.’ Mma drew in her breath. She had expected a boyfriend problem but fathers were a different matter altogether. ‘He just knocked on the door,’ said Happy Bapetsi. ‘It was a Saturday afternoon and I was resting when I heard him knocking. I went to the door and there was this man, about sixty or so, standing there with his hat in his hands. He told me that he was my Daddy and that he had been living abroad for a long time but now he was back in Botswana. And had come to see me. I almost fainted. He then asked if he could stay in one of the spare rooms.’ She paused. ‘That was three months ago. Since then, he has been living in that room and I have been doing all the work for him. All he does is sit in his chair and tell me what to do for him next.’ ‘Many men are like that,’ interrupted Mma Ramotswe. 40 Happy Bapetsi nodded. ‘This one is especially like that and I have been getting very tired of running after him. I would not resent this but I do not think he is my real Daddy. I think he is an impostor and is just looking for a good retirement home.’ Mma Ramotswe just stared in astonishment. ‘Can you help me? Can you find out if this man is my real Daddy?’ said Happy Bapetsi with desperation in her voice. Mma Ramotswe did not hesitate. ‘I’ll find out,’ she said. ‘It may take a day or two but I’ll find out.’ The next day, Mma Ramotswe put her plan into action. She borrowed a nurse’s uniform and set off to Happy Bapetsi’s house. As she neared the house, she increased her speed so that she would arrive in a cloud of dust. The Daddy was sitting in his chair outside the front door and he sat up straight when he saw Mma Ramotswe run up to the house. ‘Are you Happy Bapetsi’s Daddy?’ she asked, pretending to be out of breath. ‘Yes,’ he said proudly. ‘I’m sorry to say there has been an accident. Happy was run over and has lost a lot of blood. She needs a big operation.’ The Daddy let out a wail. ‘My daughter! My baby Happy!’ A good actor, thought Mma Ramotswe. ‘Yes,’ she went on. ‘It is very sad. And they need lots of blood to make up for what she has lost.’ The Daddy frowned. ‘They must give her that blood. We can pay.’ ‘It’s not the money,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘We must have blood from her family and you’re the only one she has.’ The Daddy sat down heavily. ‘I’m an old man,’ he said. Mma Ramotswe sensed it would work. This man was an impostor. ‘That is why we are asking you. She needs so much blood. They will have to take about half your blood. And that is very dangerous for you. You could die.’ The Daddy’s mouth fell open. ‘Die?’ ‘Yes,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘But you are her father and we know that you would do this for your daughter. The doctor is waiting.’ Mma Ramotswe took his wrist and tugged him towards the van. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to.’ ‘You must,’ said Mma Ramotswe. The Daddy shook his head. ‘No,’ he said faintly. ‘I won’t. You see, I’m not really her Daddy. There has been a mistake.’ Mma Ramotswe let go of his wrist. Then, arms folded, she stood before him and addressed him directly. ‘So you are not the Daddy. Then what are you doing sitting in that chair and eating her food? Have you heard what the law says about people like you?’ The Daddy looked at the ground and shook his head. ‘Well,’ said Mma Ramotswe firmly. ‘You go inside that house and get your things. You have five minutes. Then I am going to take you to the bus station.’ The Daddy just stood there, looking miserable. ‘Inside!’ she ordered. ‘Four minutes left now!’ Alexander McCall Smith Read lines 36-49. How does the writer make these lines exciting and dramatic? You should write about: • what happens in these lines to build excitement and drama • the writer’s use of language and structure to create excitement and drama • the effects on the reader You must refer to the text to support your answer, using relevant subject terminology where appropriate.

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In this section you will be assessed for the quality of your creative prose writing skills. 24 marks are awarded for communication and organisation; 16 marks are awarded for vocabulary, sentence structure, spelling and punctuation. You should aim to write about 450-600 words. Choose one of the following titles for your writing: Either, a) The Competition. Or, b) Write about an occasion when you were embarrassed by your family. Or, c) Write a story which ends: …and Sam felt so proud. Or, d) Write a story which begins: My career on stage was short but it was certainly memorable.

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In this section you will be assessed for the quality of your creative prose writing skills. 24 marks are awarded for communication and organisation; 16 marks are awarded for vocabulary, sentence structure, spelling and punctuation. You should aim to write about 450-600 words. Choose one of the following titles for your writing: Either, a) A Fresh Start. Or, b) Write about a time when you were asked to babysit. Or, c) Write a story which begins: I’d always been told not to cheat. Or, d) Write a story which ends: I knew I had been very selfish.

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Many older people do not use modern technology because they do not understand it and are perhaps afraid of it. You have been asked to give a talk to older people encouraging them to make use of modern technology. Your talk should include one or more of the following: • the internet • social media such as Facebook and Twitter • smart phones/smart watches • tablets Write what you would say.

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This is part of a letter that appeared in a newspaper: ‘I can’t understand why we have pets. They can be expensive to look after, they take up lots of time, children want them then get tired of them, yet if you dare to say you would never have a pet, people think you are strange. I would never have one.’ Write a letter to the newspaper giving your views on this subject.

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Section B. In this section you will be assessed for the quality of your writing skills. For each question, 12 marks are awarded for communication and organisation; 8 marks are awarded for vocabulary, sentence structure, punctuation and spelling. Think about the purpose and audience for your writing. You should aim to write about 300-400 words for each task. A travel magazine is inviting readers to submit articles on places for a good day out for all the family. You decide to write about a place that you know well, where there is a lot to do for everyone in the family. Write your article.

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Section B. In this section you will be assessed for the quality of your writing skills. For each question, 12 marks are awarded for communication and organisation; 8 marks are awarded for vocabulary, sentence structure, punctuation and spelling. Think about the purpose and audience for your writing. You should aim to write about 300-400 words for each task. It has been suggested that reduced-price bus fares for young people should be scrapped to save money, but that free travel for over 65s should continue. Write a letter to your local newspaper giving your views on this proposal.

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