Ah, the Secret Seven. That cherished group of intrepid youngsters who, against all odds and common sense, manage to stumble upon mysteries with the frequency most of us misplace our keys. In the third installment of Enid Blyton's series, "Well Done, Secret Seven," our diminutive detectives once again demonstrate their unparalleled knack for turning the mundane into the marginally interesting.
For those unfamiliar with the Secret Seven, they are a rather exclusive club, with the stringent entry requirement being the ownership of a badge and the consumption of copious amounts of lemonade and ginger biscuits. The club consists of Peter, the overbearing leader who could benefit from a few lessons in democracy; his long-suffering sister Janet; and their friends Jack, Barbara, George, Pam, and Colin. Oh, and let's not forget Scamper, the dog, who often seems to be the only member with a modicum of sense.
In "Well Done, Secret Seven," the gang finds themselves embroiled in yet another adventure, which, as usual, unfolds with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. This time, the plot involves Jeff and his adorable kitten, a newly constructed treehouse in the woods, the rather enigmatic Mr. Tizer, and an attempted mail van robbery. The children’s attempts to solve the mystery are charmingly naive, yet improbably effective—thanks, in no small part, to a series of fortuitous coincidences that would make even the most credulous reader raise an eyebrow.
The book is awash with Blyton’s signature style: straightforward prose peppered with exclamatory dialogue. “Golly, Peter!” “I say!” and other such exclamations abound, providing a curious blend of dated charm and unintentional humour. Blyton’s world is one where the adults are either hopelessly inept or conveniently absent, allowing the children to gallivant around solving crimes with impunity. This, of course, raises all manner of questions about the parenting norms of the 1950s, but let’s not dig too deep into that particular rabbit hole.
One of the more amusing aspects of the book is the character dynamics. Peter’s autocratic leadership is a source of mild irritation. His sister Janet, ever the dutiful subordinate, follows his lead with a sigh of resignation. The other members, while ostensibly having distinct personalities, blend into a homogenous mass of well-behaved, middle-class children whose primary distinguishing features are their names. Scamper, the dog, often seems more perceptive than his human counterparts, which speaks volumes about the group’s collective intelligence.
The mystery itself, involving some decidedly non-menacing criminals and a rather predictable resolution, is wrapped up with the efficiency of a Saturday morning cartoon. The villains are thwarted, the children are lauded, and all is right with the world. There’s a certain comfort in the predictability of it all, like a cup of lukewarm tea on a dreary afternoon.
In the end, "Well Done, Secret Seven" is a quaint relic of a bygone era. It’s unlikely to keep modern readers on the edge of their seats, but it serves as a delightful reminder of simpler times. The book’s earnestness and unselfconscious charm are its saving graces, even if its plot and characters are more two-dimensional than a paper doll.
For those with a nostalgic fondness for Blyton’s work, this book is a pleasant, if somewhat frivolous, diversion. For new readers, it might serve as a curious peek into the world of mid-20th-century children’s literature. Either way, one can’t help but feel a begrudging fondness for these well-meaning, if hapless, young sleuths. Well done, Secret Seven, indeed.