There are things I would never have grown up loving or being interested in were it not for a couple of things – and my love of detective and mystery fiction I credit to Enid Blyton’s “The Secret Seven”. Amongst other things, it developed my sense of adventure and mystery in gentle ways. For example, I would never have been able to become as absorbed in the stories of Sherlock Holmes without them. I write now because of the wealth of imaginative stuff I was exposed to throughout my childhood – and this series of books are certainly a major shareholder there.
I’ve never quite understood the contempt some people appear to have for the Secret Seven. Maybe it’s to do with context – these were sort of “starter” mystery stories, perhaps designed to feed young readers on to the teenage adventurers. Maybe it’s more that they are deeply loyal Famous Five devotees who don’t want to direct readers away from their favourites…
Whatever it is, I disagree with them. I will say now, that as an adult, I fully acknowledge that the books have not ever been a perfect example of writing or characterisation – there are attitudes in there which I see are quaint and now completely outdated (but I think to describe them as deliberately sexist is a bit too strong – doesn’t take long looking through social history to see where the views come from and that it’s a reflection of that more than anything else). Likewise, I accept that some of the plots were recycled from some of her other stories (but given that Blyton wrote something like 800 books over 40 years, that seems a fairly understandable occurrence).
The Secret Seven series paints a kind of urban childhood which was coming to an end when I was growing up and reading the books in the 1980s. Kids weren’t roaming free very much anymore, and they certainly weren’t solving mysteries or sitting in sheds discussing what their secret society would do for the rest of the holidays (but oh how I wished they were).
I did graduate up to the slightly more grown-up Famous Five, and loved that too, but my heart always stayed behind in the little garden shed, sitting on up-turned wooden boxes and flowerpots with Peter, Janet and the others. It remained more believable to me – these children went to “ordinary” day-schools (although we don’t see much of their school life), and weren’t on perpetual holiday… they discovered and solved the kind of mysteries you could imagine happening round the corner from where you lived, and they had the kind of friends you could find in real life – loyal, good fun, nothing terribly remarkable (but marvellous all the same).
For the record: I have absolutely nothing against Famous Five stories – they’re brilliant escapism, and were given even more imaginative fuel by my holidays in Cornwall, where the landscapes are a similar enough substitute for the real thing. But that was also my distinction – it was a holiday adventure, starting and ending there for me, in the main. When I was home, I always turned back to the Seven. I read and re-read the books, and repeatedly listened to the few audiobooks I’d been given over the years.
My favourite was, and I think still is now, Secret Seven Fireworks. There’s not really a particular reason for that – it’s just one I have particular fondness for – it’s creepy, but also brilliantly evocative for me, has a lovely little sub-plot of jealousy and sibling rivalry (to contrast with Peter and Janet’s impossibly good relationship). In short, it reflected something of my own childhood.
It’s dated, but not so badly enough that the stories are unreadable or not enjoyable – and brings back enough good memories now that I’m seriously looking forward to sharing them with my own son.
I loved growing up in the 80s – I have nothing but warm memories of growing up in a leafy suburb, getting muddy almost every weekend, playing in a group and wonderful autumn and winter seasons waving sparklers, watching firework displays wrapped up in duffle coat and wooly mittens, building snowmen in the garden and all the excitement and sparkle of a proper family Christmas.
It still felt like the Secret Seven was this world – small town England, with friendly communities and finding out about the world was something you had to do by going outside. The TV was a big thing, of course, but it wasn’t relied on as much it is these days.
I might not like the repackaged, cartoony, Secret Seven, but I’m thankful that it’s still the same stories underneath the cover. Progress isn’t always damaging, I suppose, and if it encourages more kids to read these adventures, and let them fuel their imagination, then I am all for it.
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