In Three Cheers, Secret Seven!, Enid Blyton delivers a masterclass in how to take a minor domestic inconvenience and transform it into what could loosely be described as a "mystery," while throwing in a generous helping of outdated gender norms for good measure. The eighth book in this series is a perfectly wrapped gift of absurdly convenient plot resolutions and rampant sexism, with all the subtlety of a toy aeroplane crashing into a house—literally.
Let’s start with the so-called mystery. The Secret Seven—Peter, Janet, Jack, Barbara, George, Pam, and Colin—are, as usual, meandering through life with nothing to do but look for the faintest whiff of trouble. Enter Susie, Jack's sister, and her new toy aeroplane, a marvel of the age that, tragically, is wasted on her. Why? Well, you see, she’s a girl, and therefore she can’t possibly comprehend its “complicated” instructions. The notion that aeroplanes, or toys of any kind, are beyond the mental grasp of half the population is treated as a simple fact, and our dear Peter is quick to remind us of this at every opportunity. It’s enough to make you want to place Susie at the controls to a real plane just to prove them all wrong.
Naturally, the boys of the Secret Seven, clearly the superior aeronautical experts in this scenario, take charge of the plane. In what may be the least thrilling setup for a mystery ever, they manage to accidentally crash the toy aeroplane onto the balcony of Bartlett Lodge, an empty house currently under the care of Mr. Frampton, the local bank manager. As the gardener doesn’t want them snooping around and refuses to let them look for the plane, Peter and Jack do some investigating—by which I mean they happen to notice a gas fire burning inside the house while recovering the toy. Gasp! Clearly, something sinister is afoot, because who would ever think to use heating in an empty house, right?
This is where the “mystery” begins. If you can even call it that. The Seven are on high alert, convinced they’ve uncovered something nefarious. Are we dealing with burglars? Ghosts? A sinister criminal organisation using Bartlett Lodge as a hideout? No, of course not. We’re dealing with George Grim, the gardener, who has—shockingly—moved his sick wife into the house because their own cottage has a hole in the roof and is part-flooded, but has done so without permission from Mr Frampton (When asked by Frampton why he didn’t ask, he quite rightly points out there’s no way he would have said yes). Mrs. Grim has a serious cough, which the doctor says needs treating in dry conditions, so George did the only thing within his power at the time and temporarily relocated her to the lodge.
This is the “mystery” that the Secret Seven spend the better part of a book puzzling over, and the grand reveal is less a result of clever sleuthing and more a product of Peter and Janet’s father just happening to have a solution and Blyton needing to get him involved. Mr. Seven-Dad conveniently owns a nearby cottage that has just been vacated by a farmhand, and he generously offers it to the Grims—solving both the “mystery” and their housing problem in one tidy stroke. All of this is wrapped up so cleanly that you half expect a bow to appear on top of the book.
But let’s not forget the rampant sexism that permeates every corner of this tale. The girls in the Secret Seven—Janet, Barbara, Pam—are consistently relegated to the sidelines, forbidden from participating in the “dangerous” or “exciting” parts of the investigation. Peter, in his infinite wisdom, decides that this is all too much for their delicate constitutions. After all, girls can’t possibly handle real adventure, right? If they’re lucky, maybe they’ll get to bake some cakes for the boys to eat while they’re off doing the “real” work. It’s a good thing Peter’s there to protect them from the horrors of a mildly suspicious gas fire.
And then there’s Susie. Poor, clever, always-ignored Susie, who is treated like an afterthought simply because she’s a girl and not a member of the hallowed Secret Seven. The boys’ condescending dismissal of her ability to understand the toy aeroplane’s manual is truly something to behold—because clearly the mental gymnastics required to operate a small wind-up toy are far beyond her. The fact that Susie consistently demonstrates more intelligence and resourcefulness than most of the Seven combined is, of course, irrelevant.
In the end, Three Cheers, Secret Seven! is a triumph of lazy plot development and gender stereotyping. The “mystery” is less of a whodunnit and more of a "whocares," the sexism is as predictable as the conclusion, and the resolution is so neatly tied up you can practically hear Blyton’s sigh of relief as she types the final paragraph. As for the Secret Seven? They’ll pat themselves on the back for a job well done, even though the real hero of the story is Mr. Frampton for not immediately shopping the Grims to the police and Peter and Janet’s father pulling a job and new place to live out of his hat.
So, three cheers for the Secret Seven, indeed! But perhaps next time, they could aim a little higher than recovering a toy plane and solving the world’s least mysterious mystery. And maybe—just maybe—allow the girls to do something more exciting than make sandwiches. One can dream.