Good Work, Secret Seven is a title that practically begs for an exclamation point of sarcastic disbelief rather than genuine enthusiasm. This sixth installment in Enid Blyton’s indefatigable series is a masterclass in absurdity, where youthful exuberance meets the criminal underworld, only to be met with a heady mix of bumbling incompetence and laughable luck. It’s a tale that surely must have been penned during a particularly foggy day in Blyton's imagination, where clarity was cast aside like the very fireworks that threaten to blow this plot sky-high.
As the story kicks off, we find our illustrious seven—Peter, Janet, Jack, Barbara, George, Pam, and Colin—once again grappling with the most mundane of childhood dilemmas: what to do with all that time and no adult supervision. Naturally, their first order of business is to be mercilessly tormented by Susie, Jack's sister, whose talent for mischief is as underappreciated as it is effective. Her latest prank involves sending the Secret Seven on a wild goose chase, which, let’s be honest, would likely have been more thrilling than the actual “adventure” that follows.
Susie’s ruse leads the Seven to a shed. Yes, a shed. One can only marvel at how a group of seven children can be so easily duped into thinking a dusty old shed holds the key to anything more than perhaps a rusty lawnmower or a colony of spiders. But alas, in the world of the Secret Seven, this antic represents high stakes and perilous mystery. For a fleeting moment, you might believe the story could pivot to something vaguely interesting, but rest assured, Blyton is not one to indulge in such flights of fancy.
The plot thickens—or rather, coagulates—when Peter and Janet’s father’s car is stolen. Now, before you clutch your pearls, understand that the car thieves in this tale seem to have graduated from the school of criminal incompetence, as they abandon the car almost immediately, leaving Peter and Janet untouched. It’s the sort of criminal behaviour that leaves one pondering whether these car thieves might not, in fact, be part of the Secret Seven themselves, given their shared aptitude for getting absolutely nothing done.
Meanwhile, Bonfire Night looms on the horizon, an event that promises to inject some much-needed excitement into the proceedings. But once again, Blyton dashes any hopes for high drama when Scamper, the loyal but obviously pyrotechnically-challenged dog, manages to set the Secret Seven’s entire stockpile of fireworks ablaze. It’s a tragedy of epic proportions, not because of the lost fireworks, but because it marks yet another moment where Blyton could have let something interesting happen, only to extinguish it with all the fanfare of a damp sparkler.
But fear not, dear reader, for there is still the investigation into the car thieves! The Secret Seven, in their infinite wisdom, decide that the best way to catch these ne'er-do-wells is for Peter to disguise himself as a guy—yes, as in the effigy burned on Guy Fawkes Night. Here we have a crowning moment in the annals of juvenile detective work. Peter, presumably thinking that blending in with the local ragdolls will give him the upper hand, settles down in front of a café, no doubt blending in seamlessly with the regular clientele.
As you might predict, Peter’s cunning disguise and the Seven’s impeccable sleuthing skills bring the criminals to justice—or perhaps the criminals simply tire of the Seven’s antics and turn themselves in, it’s hard to tell. Either way, the Secret Seven triumph, or something resembling triumph, as they once again prove that even the most inept group of children can stumble into success given enough time and sheer luck.
Good Work, Secret Seven is a veritable romp through the fields of mediocrity, where the stakes are low, the tension is non-existent, and the characters continue to stumble through their “adventures” with a blissful ignorance that only childhood can bestow. It’s a wonder that Blyton didn’t name this book At Least They Tried! instead. For the discerning reader, it’s a reminder that sometimes, it’s best to simply let the fireworks burn out and call it a night.