As it emerged for the first time into the daylight everyone fell silent. Edward hosed the intact canopy, watched by the small group of locally recruited workmen and the two-man crew of the lighter. Even after nearly forty years it was easy to imagine the immense force with which this stricken machine had plunged into the creek. The exposed engine block, a black bull’s head of unrecognisable metal, was a fossil of pain. We waited for it to give its last cry as Edward hosed the silt from the valve jacket and propeller boss. His boyish face revealed a clear-eyed seriousness that must have swept everything from Sally’s heart when he parked behind her on the Bay Bridge and changed the flat tyre of her VW.

A warped propeller blade appeared, bent into a graceful arc. Edward wiped the mud from his arms and chest. Leaning against one of the ladders lowered into the pit, he ran his hands over the engine, searching for the carburettors and exhaust ports. Behind us, David had left the inn and was wandering across the mud flat, a tray loaded with beer glasses in his hands, attention distracted by a child with a large dog.

“It’s a Spitfire,” someone said. One of the excavation team, a Norwich surgeon, turned and gave a thumb’s-up to Sally and nodded encouragingly at me. I waved to David, who approached through the grass, watching the froth on the glasses. Edward was hosing away the mud from the top of the fuselage, exposing the cockpit canopy and the ragged metal plates where the tail had been torn away. He was frowning at something he had discovered and turned off the hose, shaking his head to himself.

There was a shout, followed by a further moment of silence as everyone stared into the pit. The Norwich surgeon signalled to the lighter men, and the diesel ceased its tapping. The workmen stepped closer to the pit.

“What is it?” Sally asked. “Is Edward all right?”

“He’s fine. The canopy’s closed.”

“And? Does that matter?”

“The pilot’s probably still in there.” I lowered my voice. “If he’d bailed out the canopy would have shattered on impact.”

“Dear God.” Sally grimaced, holding tight to her daughter as David arrived with the tray of drinks. “Jim, I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have come. I thought you and David might—”

“No…” I touched her shoulder, trying to calm her. “I’m glad we did.”

“What’s going on?” David stepped past us and made his way down to the site. “Is someone hurt?”

“No, but…”

I followed him to the edge of the pit. Pints of ale were passed round, but no one drank. Wrenches in hand, Edward and the surgeon straddled the fuselage, like sailors unfurling a shroud. The canopy, its black panes intact, lifted without any effort, revealing a solid mass of ancient silt moulded to the glass and windshield.