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The beloved novelist Jilly Cooper, who left us unexpectedly at the age of 88, racked up sales of 11m books of her assorted sweeping books over her half-century career in writing. Cherished by all discerning readers over a certain age (forty-five), she was introduced to a new generation last year with the Disney+ adaptation of Rivals.

The Rutshire Chronicles

Devoted fans would have wanted to view the Rutshire chronicles in order: commencing with Riders, first published in 1985, in which the character Rupert Campbell-Black, cad, philanderer, equestrian, is debuts. But that’s a side note – what was remarkable about viewing Rivals as a binge-watch was how well Cooper’s fictional realm had remained relevant. The chronicles captured the 80s: the broad shoulders and voluminous skirts; the preoccupation with social class; aristocrats disdaining the flashy new money, both dismissing everyone else while they snipped about how warm their bubbly was; the sexual politics, with inappropriate behavior and misconduct so everyday they were practically figures in their own right, a double act you could rely on to move the plot along.

While Cooper might have occupied this era totally, she was never the classic fish not seeing the ocean because it’s ubiquitous. She had a humanity and an observational intelligence that you maybe wouldn’t guess from her public persona. All her creations, from the canine to the equine to her parents to her French exchange’s brother, was always “absolutely sweet” – unless, that is, they were “completely exquisite”. People got assaulted and further in Cooper’s work, but that was never condoned – it’s surprising how OK it is in many supposedly sophisticated books of the time.

Social Strata and Personality

She was well-to-do, which for practical purposes meant that her parent had to work for a living, but she’d have defined the social classes more by their values. The bourgeoisie worried about every little detail, all the time – what other people might think, primarily – and the upper classes didn’t give a … well “such things”. She was raunchy, at times extremely, but her prose was never coarse.

She’d recount her childhood in idyllic language: “Dad went to Dunkirk and Mother was extremely anxious”. They were both utterly beautiful, engaged in a eternal partnership, and this Cooper emulated in her own partnership, to a businessman of historical accounts, Leo Cooper. She was twenty-four, he was 27, the marriage wasn’t perfect (he was a philanderer), but she was consistently confident giving people the recipe for a successful union, which is creaking bed springs but (crucial point), they’re creaking with all the mirth. He never read her books – he read Prudence once, when he had flu, and said it made him feel more ill. She wasn't bothered, and said it was returned: she wouldn’t be seen dead reading war chronicles.

Constantly keep a diary – it’s very difficult, when you’re 25, to recollect what twenty-four felt like

The Romance Series

Prudence (the late 70s) was the fifth installment in the Romance series, which began with Emily in the mid-70s. If you approached Cooper from the later works, having begun in the main series, the early novels, AKA “those ones named after posh girls” – also Imogen and Harriet – were close but no cigar, every hero feeling like a test-run for Rupert, every main character a little bit drippy. Plus, line for line (Without exact data), there was less sex in them. They were a bit conservative on topics of propriety, women always worrying that men would think they’re promiscuous, men saying batshit things about why they liked virgins (comparably, apparently, as a true gentleman always wants to be the primary to open a jar of instant coffee). I don’t know if I’d recommend reading these books at a young age. I assumed for a while that that’s what the upper class actually believed.

They were, however, remarkably tightly written, successful romances, which is far more difficult than it appears. You experienced Harriet’s unplanned pregnancy, Bella’s pissy in-laws, Emily’s remote Scottish life – Cooper could transport you from an hopeless moment to a windfall of the emotions, and you could not once, even in the early days, put your finger on how she did it. Suddenly you’d be smiling at her highly specific accounts of the sheets, the next you’d have tears in your eyes and little understanding how they arrived.

Authorial Advice

Questioned how to be a author, Cooper would often state the kind of thing that the literary giant would have said, if he could have been inclined to assist a aspiring writer: use all 5 of your faculties, say how things smelled and seemed and heard and felt and tasted – it greatly improves the narrative. But perhaps more practical was: “Forever keep a notebook – it’s very hard, when you’re twenty-five, to remember what being 24 felt like.” That’s one of the primary realizations you notice, in the more extensive, densely peopled books, which have seventeen main characters rather than just a single protagonist, all with decidedly aristocratic names, unless they’re American, in which case they’re called Helen. Even an age difference of a few years, between two sisters, between a man and a woman, you can hear in the speech.

An Author's Tale

The historical account of Riders was so exactly characteristically Cooper it couldn't possibly have been real, except it absolutely is real because London’s Evening Standard made a public request about it at the era: she wrote the complete book in the early 70s, long before the early novels, brought it into the West End and misplaced it on a public transport. Some texture has been intentionally omitted of this story – what, for case, was so crucial in the West End that you would forget the unique draft of your book on a train, which is not that different from forgetting your child on a train? Surely an assignation, but which type?

Cooper was prone to embellish her own disorder and ineptitude