Act IV - Amber the Big Sister
Scene: Kitchen
(Sydney flat, early evening. The kitchen is noisy with bubbling pots and clattering pans. Amber swiped 'Little Women' from Will’s bookcase, meaning to skim a few pages between chopping onions. The book lies open on the counter, ignored as steam rises from the stove.)
AMBER (grumbling to herself while stirring):
Three men in the living room and no one knows how a kitchen functions. Typical.
(She wipes her hands on a tea towel, fishes a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket, and heads to the window. With a practiced flick, she slips one between her lips. The lighter clicks. But as she glances down, the cigarette has vanished. In its place is… a wooden spatula.)
AMBER (startled, muttering):
What the—? This flat’s cursed. Bloody hell—
(She whirls around to complain out loud, only to stop dead. The linoleum has turned into wide wooden planks. The modern hum of the fridge is gone, replaced by the crackle of a hearth. Outside the window, snow drifts past candlelit panes. Amber blinks—she’s no longer in Sydney at all.)
(Across the room, four girls bustle about: Meg preening with rouge at a mirror, Jo hunched over ink-stained papers, Beth timidly playing at a small upright piano, and Amy leaning out the curtains to spy on the neighbours.)
AMBER (deadpan, clutching the spatula like a weapon):
Of course. Brilliant.
(The sisters glance up, wide-eyed, as Amber sighs and ties on an apron she did not own a moment ago.)
Scene 2: The March Kitchen
(Amber surveys the room. The crowd before her buzzing with vanity, frustration, shyness, and daydreams. Amber’s jaw drops.)
AMBER (in disbelief):
What on earth is this circus? Rouge, scribbles, sighs, and gossip—are you girls rehearsing for your ridiculous play, or is this just daily life?
MEG (startled, then hopeful):
Does our big sister need a hand in the kitchen?
AMBER (snorts, eyes wide):
Big sister? Me? Don’t make me laugh. If I am, then I’ve clearly inherited four crybabies.
(The sisters bristle, but Amber points the spatula like a gavel, slipping into the role.)
AMBER (to Meg):
Meg, you moan about not being pretty enough. Do you think beauty is your only ticket in life?
MEG (blushing, defensive but earnest):
I want to be pretty, because I wish to bring gentleness where life is harsh.
AMBER (softening a fraction, then turning on Jo):
And you, Jo—growling about injustice. Writing won’t change the world if all you do is complain. Are you here to prove women can fight with words, or to sulk because men don’t hand you the stage?
JO (fierce, eyes blazing):
I don’t want their stage. I’ll build my own. My words will outlive me, even if they spit at my name now.
AMBER (arching a brow, then to Beth):
Beth—quiet as a mouse. You’d rather suffer by yourself than ask for help. Sweetheart, silence may look gentle, but it breaks you first. Why do you hide?
BETH (small voice):
Because I’d rather give than take. I only want to ease Father’s burdens.
AMBER (her stare lingers, then moves to Amy):
And Amy—don’t think I didn’t see you. Pining over old Lawrence like he’s the prize. You believe that is love? What happens when it fades?
AMY (chin high, defiant):
Then I’ll have art. I want to paint what’s eternal.
(Amber lowers the spatula slowly, taking in their flushed faces, their stubborn eyes. Her scowl slips into something warmer, thoughtful.)
AMBER (gruff, but voice cracking at the edges):
You’re all ridiculous—vain, loud, timid, spoiled. And yet…
(She sighs, shoulders dropping.)
AMBER:
…underneath, you’re strong. Brave. Compassionate. Each of you wants to love, to create, to heal, to dream bigger than the world allows. Call it childish if you like, but it’s the kind of childishness that keeps the world alive.
(The sisters brighten: Jo raises her ink-stained hand in salute, Meg smiles through tears, Beth whispers “thank you,” Amy blushes and looks away. For the first time, Amber feels the weight and joy of being the “big sister.”)
(The wind stirs, curtains snap, and the March kitchen dissolves into curry steam. Amber blinks—back in Sydney, spatula in hand, three hungry men already waiting at the table. She sighs, but a faint smile tugs her lips.)
Scene 3: Back at the Flat
(Amber stands at the stove again, spatula in hand. Three heads turn—Mark, Will, Wai—hungry, hopeful, hopeless.)
WAI (dramatic despair):
At last! I nearly wrote my will. It’s two lines: “Give racket to Will. Delete browser history.”
MARK (earnest):
Do you need help plating? I can… line the bowls by size.
WILL (mild, teasing):
Let the chef conduct. We’re lucky to eat at all.
(Amber serves with theatrical force, then leans on the counter, eyeing them.)
AMBER (half to herself):
I was just somewhere with four girls ready to crack the world open with stubbornness and grace. Felt like a home I forgot to have.
WAI (mouth full already):
Oi, were you high or something? Never seen anyone look that blissful over a smoke.
AMBER (snorts):
Some trips don’t need passports.
MARK (quietly):
Were they… happy?
AMBER (after a pause):
Hungry. Worried. Brilliant.
WILL (watching her, softly):
Sounds like you liked having sisters.
AMBER (gruff, hiding a smile):
I liked that they liked each other. Imagine that—a house running on affection instead of takeaway menus and lost socks.
WAI (mock-wounded):
Oi! These socks have character.
WILL:
Here’s to the sisters you missed out on—and to the one we’re lucky enough to have.
(Laughter ripples. Amber raises her glass, the others follow.)
AMBER:
For the record—I may swear like a bogan, but I’ve a soft spot for girls’ lives. The ribbons, the ink-stained fingers, the frozen hands clutching teacups, the foolish crushes and the stubborn courage. If the world ever learns kindness, it should begin with them.
(For once, Amber doesn’t laugh at her own words. There’s a pause—Mark glancing at her curiously, Will tilting his head with interest. Even Wai looks briefly disarmed. Amber clears her throat, trying to brush off the silence with a gruff wave of her hand.)
AMBER:
Anyway, what I’m saying is—sometimes it’s good to do something… nice. Romantic, even. Not roses-and-sonnets rubbish, but—say—a coastal walk. Sun on our backs, sea air in our lungs. No deadlines, no arguments. Just… us. Wouldn’t that be something?
(Mark smiles faintly, touched. Will’s eyes narrow with amused approval, as though he’s seen a side of Amber she’s tried to keep hidden. Wai, of course, breaks the moment with a snort.)
WAI:
You? Romantic? Please. You’d scare off the dolphins before we even left the car park.
AMBER (glaring, grabbing a bread roll and hurling it at him):
Better than you, mate—you’d spend the whole way whining about blisters.
WAI (ducking, laughing, then firing back):
At least I wouldn’t trip over my own boots trying to look deep and mysterious.
AMBER (snorts, half-smiling despite herself):
Deep? The only deep thing about you is the hole in your wallet.
(The table bursts into laughter. Mark nearly spills his wine, Will hides a smirk behind his glass. Amber slaps the table, rough edges firmly back in place, though a trace of softness lingers in her eyes. The moment is fleeting but real: beneath the teasing, there’s the promise of a walk by the sea, and the unspoken truth that even the roughest hearts can crave a little romance.)