We enjoyed more Elgar. In Vierne's Claire de Lune I gazed at the tastefully dimmed electroliers in the chancel and imagined they were so many little moons - though in practice in this part of London the heavens are rarely visible through the fog. Oh! - and I should say that the organ acquitted itself excellently - no untoward creaks or clatters, only one duff note on the Clarionet, though naturally no voice of great distinction beyond a well characterised Harmonic Flute. Well, that is not quite true, for this was my first encounter with that rare beast, an *early* Binns Open Diapason - and there was the Schulze tone alright! Broad, stringy, incisive and SLOW. No matter that no trace of German character could be found in any other stop on the organ, all of which clearly descended from a much more cautious heritage, this was the Ekte Prinzipal, authentic in every way, and better even than those of Charles Brindley.

The last advertised piece was the Boellman Suite Gothique - a personal favourite of the organist at St. Frideswide's, Mr. Greatorex - and a work in which we were left in no doubt as to the powers Pauloni has at his disposal. Indeed, at about the recapitulation in the final Toccata, a wine glass shattered quite spontaneously - though I hardly imagine that anyone noticed it do so, as the maestro was elevating a near-cliche of the repertoire into a monument of Parnassian scope.

We stood and cheered.... - well, we were certainly in the mood to, though the gentlefolk of Holland Park would scarcely consider it decorous to show too much enthusiasm in church, and their acclamations were quite dignified, though nevertheless completely heartfelt (during the Vierne I noticed two old ladies staring contentedly at Pauloni's photograph in the programme).

Well, the next few minutes are something of a jumble in my memory. Pauloni, with the most commendable condescension, returned to the organ to play an encore. Indeed it had been so clear, from his playing, that he was enjoying himself that I felt sure this 'extra' reflected reciprocal pleasure more than a sense of mere duty to his admirers. He launched himself with electrifying dispatch into a piece of which I have never heard the like .... a display of prestidigitation at the keyboard of a kind that few would dare to imitate, and a whirlwind of sound rising to an extraordinary crescendo.

Perhaps more extraordinary than it should have been. What I think must have happened is this: Mr. Greatorex had arranged for a celebratory display of fireworks to be held in the gardens after the concert; the men charged with their firing must have followed the published programme to the letter, and commenced their incendiary task shortly after the conclusion of the Boellmann (imagining that the hullabaloo thus caused would draw their audience out of the church). Of course in fact they timed the first major barrage of three- and four- inch mortars to coincide precisely with the encore. Within, I was so totally immersed in the power of the performance that I briefly believed that this giant of the organ bench had found yet another miraculous sound that I had never heard before from an organ built north of Camden Town, and I did not notice the explosions and rifle-like crackling as separate from the crashing final chords (at which point I observed that every stop-knob on the organ was drawn, including the freshly rejuvenated Choir Posaune).

I did, however, notice the violent entry of a shell through the roof above the organ, and the rather charming peach-coloured explosion which lit up the nave and caused the audience to loose all sense of discretion, and then to panic. In the ensuing barrage it was difficult to tell what happened. I found myself borne along on a tide of well-heeled yuppies, deafened by the most terrifying bangs and reports, dimly aware of a layer of elderly and disabled people over whom we were trampling, and clutching a handkerchief to my nose against the dense cloud of sulphurous smoke. Amidst the yelling and confusion (and the dying echoes of the music) we surged towards the doors; pews were overturned, clothing was ripped against kneeler-hooks, many injuries (some serious) were sustained and (I noticed to my distress) an especially fine window by Clayton & Bell was blown to atoms by an errant Roman Candle.

As I tried desparately to make my way to the west door (I found myself unaccountably clutching the curate's hair at one point) I looked up to see the hapless Pauloni waving frantically from the console above. His situation was dreadful - by now surrounded by flames, he was in peril of his life. The fire had reached the organ, and with so much well-seasoned timber now in its grasp there would only be moments before all was consumed. The stencilled front-pipes began to totter as smoke billowed from the swell-boxes, and I understood at once that there was not a moment to loose.

Reaching up with my cane, I was able to give one of the electroliers a hearty push in the direction of the west gallery. Luckily, Pauloni seized his chance, leaping onto the swinging lamp just as the Open Diapason basses plummeted into the nave (impaling a group of girl-guides in the process). I lost my balance at this point, and while recovering by jabbing out sharply with my cane (it seemed to bed itself firmly in something soft) I briefly saw the extraordinary spectacle of Nobilissime the Count Paulo Pauloni swinging into the centre of the nave, and then, wailing in an uncharacteristically apprehensive manner, back towards the organ again. For a moment I though he would be propelled directly into the flames from which he had just escaped! Thankfully, at the moment of crisis, the chain holding the light-fitting to the ceiling broke, and he landed quite safely on an advertising executive and his wife and daughters. I made a last effort to move forward, was carried along again on the tide of people, grabbed the maestro by the hand where he lay, and dragged him out of the west door just as the burning Great soundboard crashed through the floor of the gallery above.

It was indeed a most fortunate escape. Outside in the crescent a crowd had gathered: partly a mob of gawking onlookers, partly the shocked and wounded from the recital, and also a number of sidesmen trying to complete the retiring collection. The fire engines were on their way - we could see the flashing lights where they were trying to reach the church along the crowded street. Without a moment to loose I bundled Paulo into the barouche, pulled the starter, and, horns blaring, drove away as fast as I could between the deftly-parting masses. As I looked back through the mirror I could see, past the Brock's Patent Niagara Falls and a very fine group of Catherine Wheels and Lancework Tableaux, the burning steeple sink gracefully onto the smoking ruins of St. Frideswide, Notting Hill, London W11 and onto the charred remains of a fine organ by James Jepson Binns, of Leeds, Yorkshire.

I drove Paulo back to the Abbey in silence. When we arrived I let him out of the passenger door and we said good evening to one another.

'Tell me,' he said; 'was I on good form?'

'Paulo,' I replied; 'you brought the house down.'

Stephen Bicknell was born in London in 1957 and was educated at Winchester College and St. Chad's College Durham. His career in pipe organ building started with N.P.Mander Ltd of London in 1979. From 1987-1990 he worked with J.W.Walker & Sons Ltd, returning to N.P.Mander Ltd as head designer in 1990. He has been directly involved with the design and construction of some of the most significant recent new instruments to be built in Britain. In 1993 he left full-time organ building to pursue a varied free-lance career. His interests in organ history have been expressed in his membership of the British Institute of Organ Studies (BIOS) since soon after its conception in 1976. He has served BIOS as Council Member, Membership Secretary, and as editor of the quarterly BIOS Reporter (1986-1992). He has contributed essays to the annual BIOS Journal and to other publications, and has read papers at conferences in Britain, France, Germany and the United States. In 1996 Cambridge University Press published Stephen Bicknell's 'The History of the English Organ', a work which has received wide critical acclaim and was the winner of the Nicholas Bessaraboff Prize for the best book in English on musical instrument published in the two year period 1996-7, awarded by the American Musical Instrument Society. Stephen Bicknell now works as a writer, designer and consultant in the field of pipe organs, and lectures in Organ History at the Royal Academy of Music, London.