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Jilly Cooper, who left us unexpectedly at the 88 years of age, racked up sales of 11m books of her various sweeping books over her half-century literary career. Beloved by all discerning readers over a specific age (mid-forties), she was introduced to a modern audience last year with the streaming series adaptation of Rivals.

The Rutshire Chronicles

Devoted fans would have preferred to view the Rutshire chronicles in order: beginning with Riders, originally published in the mid-80s, in which Rupert Campbell-Black, scoundrel, heartbreaker, equestrian, is debuts. But that’s a minor point – what was remarkable about watching Rivals as a box set was how brilliantly Cooper’s world had remained relevant. The chronicles distilled the 1980s: the shoulder pads and puffball skirts; the preoccupation with social class; the upper class looking down on the ostentatious newly wealthy, both dismissing everyone else while they quibbled about how warm their bubbly was; the intimate power struggles, with unwanted advances and misconduct so everyday they were almost figures in their own right, a pair you could rely on to drive the narrative forward.

While Cooper might have lived in this period fully, she was never the proverbial fish not noticing the ocean because it’s everywhere. She had a humanity and an perceptive wisdom that you might not expect from listening to her speak. All her creations, from the dog to the pony to her family to her French exchange’s brother, was always “utterly charming” – unless, that is, they were “absolutely divine”. People got harassed and worse in Cooper’s work, but that was never condoned – it’s remarkable how OK it is in many far more literary books of the era.

Background and Behavior

She was well-to-do, which for real-world terms meant that her dad had to hold down a job, but she’d have described the strata more by their values. The middle-class people worried about everything, all the time – what society might think, primarily – and the upper classes didn’t care a … well “stuff”. She was spicy, at times very much, but her prose was never coarse.

She’d recount her childhood in storybook prose: “Dad went to the war and Mother was deeply concerned”. They were both completely gorgeous, involved in a eternal partnership, and this Cooper replicated in her own partnership, to a editor of war books, Leo Cooper. She was 24, he was twenty-seven, the relationship wasn’t smooth sailing (he was a unfaithful type), but she was always comfortable giving people the formula for a successful union, which is noisy mattress but (key insight), they’re creaking with all the mirth. He didn't read her books – he read Prudence once, when he had influenza, and said it made him feel worse. She took no offense, and said it was reciprocated: she wouldn’t be seen dead reading war chronicles.

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

Early Works

Prudence (1978) was the fifth volume in the Romance novels, which commenced with Emily in the mid-70s. If you approached Cooper in reverse, having commenced in the main series, the Romances, also known as “the books named after affluent ladies” – also Imogen and Harriet – were almost there, every protagonist feeling like a prototype for the iconic character, every heroine a little bit insipid. Plus, chapter for chapter (Without exact data), there wasn’t as much sex in them. They were a bit conservative on matters of decorum, women always fretting that men would think they’re promiscuous, men saying batshit things about why they liked virgins (in much the same way, apparently, as a genuine guy always wants to be the primary to open a tin of instant coffee). I don’t know if I’d recommend reading these stories at a young age. I assumed for a while that that was what the upper class genuinely felt.

They were, however, incredibly precisely constructed, successful romances, which is considerably tougher than it sounds. You felt Harriet’s surprise baby, Bella’s annoying in-laws, Emily’s Scottish isolation – Cooper could transport you from an all-is-lost moment to a lottery win of the heart, and you could never, even in the initial stages, put your finger on how she managed it. Suddenly you’d be chuckling at her incredibly close accounts of the bedding, the next you’d have watery eyes and no idea how they arrived.

Literary Guidance

Asked how to be a novelist, Cooper would often state the sort of advice that the literary giant would have said, if he could have been arsed to assist a aspiring writer: use all all of your senses, say how things smelled and appeared and sounded and touched and tasted – it greatly improves the narrative. But likely more helpful was: “Forever keep a notebook – it’s very hard, when you’re 25, to remember what being 24 felt like.” That’s one of the primary realizations you notice, in the more detailed, character-rich books, which have numerous female leads rather than just one lead, all with very upper-class names, unless they’re from the US, in which case they’re called Helen. Even an generational gap of four years, between two relatives, between a gentleman and a lady, you can hear in the conversation.

A Literary Mystery

The origin story of Riders was so exactly typical of the author it might not have been accurate, except it definitely is factual because London’s Evening Standard ran an appeal about it at the time: she finished the entire draft in 1970, prior to the Romances, took it into the city center and misplaced it on a public transport. Some texture has been intentionally omitted of this story – what, for example, was so significant in the city that you would abandon the sole version of your book on a bus, which is not that far from abandoning your baby on a railway? Surely an meeting, but what kind?

Cooper was inclined to exaggerate her own chaos and haplessness