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The beloved novelist Jilly Cooper, who died suddenly at the 88 years of age, achieved sales of 11m books of her various grand books over her 50-year career in writing. Adored by every sensible person over a particular age (mid-forties), she was brought to a new generation last year with the streaming series adaptation of Rivals.

The Rutshire Chronicles

Longtime readers would have preferred to view the Rutshire chronicles in chronological order: starting with Riders, initially released in the mid-80s, in which Rupert Campbell-Black, scoundrel, philanderer, equestrian, is debuts. But that’s a side note – what was notable about watching Rivals as a complete series was how brilliantly Cooper’s fictional realm had remained relevant. The chronicles captured the eighties: the shoulder pads and puffball skirts; the preoccupation with social class; the upper class looking down on the flashy new money, both dismissing everyone else while they quibbled about how room-temperature their sparkling wine was; the gender dynamics, with inappropriate behavior and abuse so everyday they were virtually figures in their own right, a double act you could rely on to drive the narrative forward.

While Cooper might have inhabited this era fully, she was never the typical fish not noticing the ocean because it’s all around. She had a compassion and an perceptive wisdom that you might not expect from listening to her speak. Every character, from the dog to the pony to her family to her French exchange’s brother, was always “utterly charming” – unless, that is, they were “completely exquisite”. People got groped and more in Cooper’s work, but that was never condoned – it’s astonishing how OK it is in many more highbrow books of the time.

Social Strata and Personality

She was affluent middle-class, which for practical purposes meant that her parent had to hold down a job, but she’d have characterized the strata more by their mores. The middle classes worried about all things, all the time – what others might think, primarily – and the aristocracy didn’t give a … well “such things”. She was raunchy, at times very much, but her language was never coarse.

She’d narrate her family life in fairytale terms: “Daddy went to the war and Mummy was extremely anxious”. They were both completely gorgeous, participating in a enduring romance, and this Cooper mirrored in her own union, to a businessman of war books, Leo Cooper. She was twenty-four, he was 27, the relationship wasn’t without hiccups (he was a philanderer), but she was always comfortable giving people the secret for a happy marriage, which is noisy mattress but (big reveal), they’re squeaking with all the joy. He avoided reading her books – he picked up Prudence once, when he had influenza, and said it made him feel worse. She wasn't bothered, and said it was returned: she wouldn’t be spotted reading war chronicles.

Forever keep a diary – it’s very hard, when you’re mid-twenties, to recall what age 24 felt like

Initial Novels

Prudence (the late 70s) was the fifth book in the Romance novels, which started with Emily in the mid-70s. If you approached Cooper backwards, having started in the main series, the initial books, also known as “those ones named after affluent ladies” – also Bella and Harriet – were almost there, every protagonist feeling like a prototype for Rupert, every female lead a little bit insipid. Plus, page for page (I haven’t actually run the numbers), there was less sex in them. They were a bit uptight on matters of propriety, women always being anxious that men would think they’re loose, men saying ridiculous comments about why they preferred virgins (in much the same way, seemingly, as a true gentleman always wants to be the first to break a tin of coffee). I don’t know if I’d advise reading these novels at a impressionable age. I thought for a while that that is what affluent individuals genuinely felt.

They were, however, extremely tightly written, high-functioning romances, which is considerably tougher than it seems. You lived Harriet’s unplanned pregnancy, Bella’s difficult relatives, Emily’s Scottish isolation – Cooper could guide you from an all-is-lost moment to a jackpot of the emotions, and you could not ever, even in the early days, put your finger on how she did it. Suddenly you’d be laughing at her meticulously detailed descriptions of the bed linen, the next you’d have emotional response and little understanding how they appeared.

Writing Wisdom

Asked how to be a writer, Cooper frequently advised the kind of thing that Ernest Hemingway would have said, if he could have been arsed to help out a novice: employ all five of your perceptions, say how things smelled and seemed and sounded and tactile and tasted – it significantly enhances the prose. But likely more helpful was: “Always keep a notebook – it’s very difficult, when you’re mid-twenties, to recall what age 24 felt like.” That’s one of the primary realizations you observe, in the more extensive, character-rich books, which have 17 heroines rather than just a single protagonist, all with decidedly aristocratic names, unless they’re Stateside, in which case they’re called a simple moniker. Even an age difference of a few years, between two sisters, between a male and a woman, you can detect in the conversation.

A Literary Mystery

The backstory of Riders was so pitch-perfectly typical of the author it couldn't possibly have been true, except it absolutely is true because a major newspaper made a public request about it at the period: she finished the whole manuscript in 1970, prior to the first books, took it into the downtown and misplaced it on a public transport. Some texture has been purposely excluded of this anecdote – what, for case, was so important in the West End that you would forget the unique draft of your manuscript on a train, which is not that different from leaving your baby on a railway? Surely an assignation, but what sort?

Cooper was inclined to amp up her own messiness and ineptitude